


Superman: Hope

by warriorfist



Category: DCU, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Gen, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorfist/pseuds/warriorfist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A planet lies on its deathbed. A fallen race, once proud and mighty, meets its end. This is a tale told many times...but this time, the Last Son of Krypton is not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Strange Visitor

*  _[...]- notifies Alien Dialect_

* * *

_3rd June, 1985_

_4: 38 AM_

**Dighton, Kansas**

* * *

For Jonathan Kent, it all began with a faint whimper.

Two snow-white paws were eagerly balanced on the edge of its modest bed, the faithful Farm Collie's head moving curiously as it eyed its sleeping master- its tail wagging as it continued to whimper. It was five months old at most, and although the canine had been in this elder man's company for all of its short life, it still refrained from licking the man's withered visage as it had often seen his peers do with their masters.

The man was exhausted from a hard day's work at the wheat fields as it was. At the ripe age of 55 Jonathan Kent was surprisingly well-preserved -there were patches of faded blonde among the short-cropped grey, and indeed he still had a head of hair when most near his age would have long encountered the annoyance associated with a receding hairline. Still, he certainly deserved this sorely required sleep- and sleep he did, like a weathered horse forced to draw carriages for as long as the poor creature could remember.

But then the whimper grew into a bark- and sadly any further continuation of Jonathan Kent's slumber was disrupted as the man shot up from his bed in a surprisingly quick motion- and he frowned when he saw the Collie standing by the bedside drawer, tongue hanging off jaw and animated beady eyes burning with curiosity as he reached for the glasses on the top of the drawer.

"Jesus, boy…" the man groaned as he flung his hardy legs off the bed, the dog running off to the doorway as he put on his working boots, "If this is about your  _food_ , I swear that you are going on nothing but hay for the next two weeks…"

The dog barked once again, running in circles around the open door for a good ten seconds before its master gave off a sigh and resolved to see what exactly had got the fledgling guard dog in such a fix- and such a late hour too.

His sleep-deprived mind and body was certainly taking their toll on him even as he walked out the bedroom door and saw the dog sprint down the stairs and straight through the dog door in the front entrance.

By the lord, Jonathan thought as he himself went down the stairs, the wooden floor creaking ever so slightly as he made his descent, but that was one  _lively_ pup. And to think of the fact that he hadn't even  _named_  the dog yet…but how could he? Mary had insisted that she herself would come up with the name for the adorable creature….and now that she was gone, he had simply given up on that front.

He had buried himself in routine- not allowing himself to stop and dwell on the enormity of the loss that he had endured. But even that was starting to take the toll on him now- physically at least, if not mentally.

Presently, however, he had to push these troubling thoughts out of his mind for the time being- for when he walked through the front door and into the windy outdoors, his keen eyes immediately registering the cause of the dog's concern. There, not more than a mile or two beyond the imposing grain silos owned by the Kennetts and the Gustavsons, he reckoned, there burned a large, fire, it's yellow flames reaching far into the starry skies.

To him, it hearkened back to the great forest fires of old, that he had heard of in stories told to him when he was still an eager boy- but any one of the two hundred and forty-seven people living in Dighton could tell you there wasn't any semblance of a forest around for hundreds of miles.

Whatever it was, it was happening smack dab in the middle of  _his_  wheat fields. Of that, he was mighty sure.

" _..Hoodlums_ , perhaps," Jonathan said, more to himself than anyone else as the dog now settled near the door of the old truck, it's faded blue paint apparent even under the night, "..still, doesn't explain why anyone would bother to cause this ruckus at four in the morning…."

Nevertheless, he returned to his modest house to pick up the old rusty 12 gauge and his hat. Still, he had never had to fire that old rust bucket since the 24 years it had been that his father had passed the 'family heirloom' onto him, and sure hoped he didn't have to now.

Jonathan had almost opened the truck door when the ever so sprightly dog started barking once again, this time its muzzle pointed towards a tiny object in front one of the front tires.

"That's it," Jonathan huffed as he slammed the door in annoyance and strode over to the dog, "If you want me to  _walk_ the whole three miles to the fields now, I swear I will have the shortest leash ever made by mankind put on that little white-"

Jonathan stopped short when he noticed the dim gleam of metal on the minuscule object. He crouched beside the dog and grabbed the material, a faint smile appearing on his wizened visage when he saw what he was holding: a  _nail_ _._

Bless old Mary's soul, but perhaps the dog wasn't as useless as he thought after all.

"Well…you best make yourself comfortable in the front seat, boy," Jonathan offered as he opened the door once again, "We got ourselves a bit of a journey in front of us."

The faithful collie barked with his usual energetic fervor before jumping in through the open door.

* * *

_4: 43 AM_

**The Pentagon, Washington**

General Samuel Lane took a deep breath as he crushed the cigarette butt against the ashtray, his steely eyes always taking note of the quiet storm that had been brewing even in this inner sanctum of the world's most secretive executive complex. Some twenty-odd men and women of highly dignified nature were seated around the enormous long Maplewood table- some highly public faces that one could spot a mile away, however most being of the type who you would likely to come upon in such a gathering no more than perhaps once in his life. And it seemed that such a momentous occasion had come to pass, that such a wide array of the country's, and arguably the world's most powerful individuals be collected at such short notice.

And the matter for which they have been gathered as such? To Samuel Lane, it was no less earth- shattering than it would have been if he had learned that the Doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction had just been thrown to the winds by the Soviets.

Of course, what was being implied by this initial discovery  _could_ lead more or less towards that consequence, the man thought as he fished in coat pocket for the pack of cigarettes, not failing to note the faint displeasure in some of his colleagues of the military-industrial complex even as he smiled pleasantly at them in reply.

Obviously, these elder peers of his were finding it hard to cloak their chagrin at being in the company of such an… _unconventional_  up and comer, who, by all tradition, should have never made it to the rank of a two star general at the tender age of 43. Even three years later, they could never live it down, he thought amusedly.

Presently, his attention was drawn by the clearing of a well-known throat- and General Lane turned around to see the Secretary of Defense smiling warmly towards him, a glass of water held firmly in his grip as he did so.

The elder statesman had an old-fashioned quality to him, his facial features and overall demeanor hearkening back somewhat to the 'golden generation' ideal that had been drummed into him by Sam Lane Sr.- and this kind of throwback was something he quietly admired.

"Hmm. Penny for your thoughts, General Lane?"

Lane smiled sheepishly at the man when he realized that he had been staring into the distance for a bit too long than he should have.

"…Forgive me, Secretary Weinberger," General Lane offered apologetically as he sat up straighter, "I suppose the enormity of it all is just something that's still making the rounds on my brain."

"Hah, don't let my poker face fool you now, Lane," the goodhearted statesman grinned before putting his glass down in earnest, "I am just as scared about this one as the next guy would be. Except…we  _really_ can't let the next guy know about this, can we? Imagine the panic the masses would be in. First we had the capes and the spandex-crowd pop up in the '40s, but then whatever the vigilantes and metahumans were…they were  _human._ And you know what? By now, the playing field is pretty leveled out as it is. Reds have just as many of them, not to count the many unaccounted ones spread over the world…"

"But that's the dilemma isn't it?" Lane offered as the Secretary seemed to be at a loss for words, "If this is what the boys are implying…I don't know, are they  _right_ about this?"

"Son, are you doubting the intelligence gathering capabilities of your nation now? A dozen different satellites picked it up something like an hour ago. CIA, NSA, heck, even NASA confirms it. Now we obviously couldn't get the KGB to play ball with us, but we are pretty sure even they must have gotten wind of it by now. Good lord…"

Sam Lane nodded grimly, his mind silently deciding to strengthen it's resolve should all their fears prove true.

"Sir, I have a wife and child back in Metropolis. And right now, I honestly can't tell for sure if I can ever be certain that they will be safe, ever again. I wonder if this is how the  _Japs_  felt after we dropped the A-bombs on them…"

"It's okay, son. It's okay to feel this fear…this uncertainty. But you are on the world stage now- you can' let that overwhelm you. We must stand strong. First and foremost, for the safety of our nation, and then for the sake of the free world."

Presently, the entire room grew eerily silent as everyone looked expectantly to the door, for the entourage of Secret Service agents had started to arrive through it. And soon enough the man currently holding the office often colloquially termed as 'leader of the free world'- the President of the United States took his place at the head of the table, all others rising in respect and reverence as he did so.

"At ease, ladies and gentlemen…" President Reagan addressed the others as he glanced at the extensive array of files and document arranged over the table, "…Now can I be informed why exactly I have been snatched from bed at four in the morning? None of the fine men escorting me were able to impart any knowledge as to the situation, so I fully expect a sound and pertinent explanation about its nature. Cap- shoot away."

Secretary Weinberger nodded politely at being directly addressed by the President, though he paused a little before replying, as though trying to choose the exact words he should use to announce the news to the chief executive.

In the end, he opted to go it the simplest way- in the bluntest manner possible.

"…Mr. President, various intelligence agencies have confirmed that… _something_ fell out of the sky a good hour and fifteen minutes ago, sir."

President Reagan stared bemusedly at the man, and indeed many of the Secretary's contemporaries were looking at him with annoyed glances- certainly they wouldn't have worded it like that. Or so they felt, at least.

"Oh?" the President finally spoke, curiosity evident in his tone, "And where would this object be falling upon, Casper?"

"Dighton, Lane County, Mr. President. Southwest Kansas."

"Hmm…now don't tell me that this fuss is all about Dorothy making her triumphant return from the Land of  _Oz_ , now will you?"

The President's good humor was certainly appreciated by those present- a brief chorus of laughs livened the otherwise deadly serious atmosphere- but it was brief after all.

And even the President could not hold back the sheer surprise and shock permeating his face when he heard those next words, no matter how fantastical or ridiculous they sounded to be.

"No, Mr. President…we are not entirely sure what it is…but the current consensus remains that an alien vessel may have crashed right into the heart of the United States, sir."

* * *

_4: 45 AM_

**The Kent Fields, Dighton**

Jonathan Kent held on to his hat as he exited his truck, while another hand clasped on to the leash he had put on the energetic little collie, not that it had much effect in dampening its spirits though. But even that white bundle of joy couldn't help but whimper a little at the fiery sight around it and its master- though the wind had seen to it that the majority of the flames had subsided, as evidenced by the charred remains of wheat being spread out through the surrounding acre of farm land. But some lingering flames still remained, some off in the distance, while some not so far away. And whatever wheat remained relatively unscathed, they were all pressed to the ground, as though an unimaginably strong gust of wind had laid them all low.

"Well…this really throws the idea of it being handiwork of hoodlums being out in the night out of the window, doesn't it boy?" Kent told his faithful companion as he led the dog around what little remained of the pathway between the successive fields, his other hand gripping tightly onto the Remington 12 gauge as he did so. His fingers gripped over the rusted handle even more so when he saw that the Thresher Carl Gustavson had lent to him had been  _brutally_ overturned, as though a couple of elephants had just rolled it along the ground a couple of times like a cat would with a ball of yarn.

He was positively struck by the fact that even though it had taken him a couple of minutes to make it here in that cantankerous piece of tin- there wasn't a soul to be seen here except him and his dog. Really strange, that the dog was the only one who had taken note of this… _what_  should he call it? Natural disaster?

Well, he had never heard crops catching fire during tornadoes or dust bowls, that's for sure.

Dear old Mary would have called it an Act of God if she would have been with him at that very moment, he reckoned.

A minute or two later, Jonathan eventually noticed that the ground was sloping downwards as he progressed, as though a landslide of sorts had occurred in the middle of the fields.

It took him the entirety of the next three minutes, as the dog certainly seemed to have found something of interest in front and was now leading him through the derelict surroundings; but Jonathan Kent realised that he now walking in the middle of a veritable crater.

And smack dab in the middle of it, there laid something so…wonderful, and something so terribly frightening all at once that Kent could not help but gasp out loud, and his grip on the dog's leash loosened, which was not at all missed by the insightful collie- who simply ran straight towards the strange object with infectious enthusiasm, entirely oblivious to the dangers it might contain within. Or so it seemed to Jonathan at the very least.

"Goddamn…don't go near it, boy! I am telling you- don't go any further towards that blasted…," Kent yelled at the dog as he ran behind him, knowing very well that the dog might just be dragging him to his death with his little stunt, "For God's sake, it could be a  _bomb for_  all we know!"

The dog stopped just inches away from the shiny metallic wreckage, beady eyes wide with wonder, and for just this once, it made no noise whatsoever as its head darted this way and that, as though trying to take in the enormity of what lay in front of the canine. Whatever remained intact of the small object, it seemed to suggest as though it was shaped like a needle. Indeed, that seemed to be the case to the wary eyes of Kent, who saw the difference between the blue bulbous part at one end and the largely metallic sheen of the rest of body, some of it painted bright reddish orange while parts of it painted a faint bluish yellow. The paint was of a sort he had never seen, for even in this sorry state the object was in, the colors seemed to be as pristine as ever.

The first thing that popped to his mind as he stood there- and it seemed to him like he had stood there forever, the world refusing to move past that moment as he contemplated what he should do next- was that this was some  _missile_ of some sort. He may have been a man born and raised in a quaint little town- but there were very few people in the entirety of the United States who didn't have at least some rudimentary knowledge about the ever-escalating arms race between their country and the Soviets. Hell, for all he know, this could a dud  _nuke_ ….or maybe some kind of newfangled napalm bomb, sort of like the ones he had heard from old Earl about his time in 'Nam- maybe that's why this thing caused all of them fires in the first place….but honestly? He had no inkling of an idea as to what this thing really was.

Then the darn dog started barking again.

He ran up to the side of the object- and then placed his paws over what appeared to be a chink in the metal- perhaps, Kent thought, trying to claw its way through the thing; but the dog turned his head towards Jonathan and then back to the chink again, and all the time it hadn't stopped it's incessant barking.

" _Now_ what do you want?" Kent grunted as he approached the side himself, placing a hand on the metallic exterior and immediately withdrawing it, noticing that contrary to his expectations it was abnormally cold. After a few moments, he ran a finger along where the dog had placed its paw not long ago- and he noticed that there was, in fact, a slide at that very point.

It was at that very moment he noticed something else seeping through that chink- dark, crimson  _blood_.

"Lord above," he gasped as he realized what the thing must be- a vessel of some sort. Maybe some new design of the ones they had used on the Apollo missions not so long ago- or maybe this was designed by the Soviets for one of  _their_  space missions- but to Jonathan Kent, it did not matter if there was a Cosmonaut or an Astronaut trapped in there.

Whoever was in there might be dying, trapped and helpless for all he knew, and he had to help that person.

He quickly gripped the slide-like opening, and then pulled with his hands as best as he could. Surprisingly, the slide titled over in an instant, some of the metal even twisting such a way upon intact so as to convince Kent that this was the most pliable material ever constructed- but what lay within, after the door-like object had flown open, was something which was infinitely more astonishing.

"Well, I will be."

The dog barked- and this time Kent could feel that it was a bark of joy and relief.

A man, shoulders broad and dressed in strange attire- a dull blue covered the majority of what seemed to be an aerodynamic, strangely threaded body suit; while there was slight patches of red here and there of intricate design near the thighs and the crotch, coupled together with a strange rectangular device banded to the man's right arm and slightly darker red boots- lay cramped in the little space afforded by the vessel, which even more so distorted by what was, obviously, a crash landing, Kent realised- and he was injured, heavily so. Although his slightly long, onyx hair was splashed upon his face, Kent could see that they were stained with blood, perhaps from a head- wound, he reckoned. Lastly, his left arm seemed to be tightly clutched upon a slightly elevated portion of the vessel's interior, and indeed Kent saw that the design in that portion was markedly different than rest of the metallic black sheen, interlaced with tiny white lines running throughout.

Needless to say, Jonathan Kent's simple mind was left spinning from all of this, as though he had just been thrown off a roller-coaster on the way to its neck-breaking descent, and he still was falling through the skies and waiting for himself to hit the ground.

Just who  _was_ this man? He looked to be young, perhaps around his late twenties to mid thirties- but his features looked so incredibly chiseled that Kent almost found himself wondering if this guy hadn't popped right out of some Greek mythology play.

And then the clothes…who on  _Earth_  wore clothes like that?

Was this vessel being commandeered by this man? Why did he, then, crash that into the middle of Kent's fields?

Just what the  _hell_  was going on here?

The dog's tugging of the sleeve of his work-worn shirt brought Kent's mind back to the ground- and he realized that he was simply wasting time, while the unconscious man before him continued to bleed. For how long he had bled, Kent had no idea- but he wasn't going to let that continue if he had a say about it.

He knew what Mary would have said to him now.

If this would have been his son- his own flesh and blood, lying there in a heap, would he have just stood there and did nothing?

No, he would do his best to help that man.

Help him he would, Kent decided as he proceeded to begin his efforts to lift the man out of the wreckage.

* * *

_4: 51 AM_

**The Pentagon**

It had taken some fair bit of convincing from the Secretary of Defense and several of his peers, but it looked to General Lane that the President was finally coming around to their point of view.

"My God…" President Reagan said at length, "…you people are saying that this unidentified object was slinging around the Earth's orbit for as long as an  _hour_ and we couldn't do a damn thing about it?"

"Sir," the Secretary began once again, "it was moving  _indescribably_ fast. The boys from NASA tell me that the fact they managed to get a decent photo of that vessel was a feat in itself."

The President shook his head, signs of despair creeping upon his hardened features as one hand gripped his temple, and another perused the folder in front of him, picking out the photo that Secretary Weinberger had referred to.

"Jesus H. Christ….this is the exactly type of thing for which something like the Strategic Defense Initiative needs to be in place for..."

The President took a moment to compose himself, before beginning again.

"Our people have been sent to secure where this vehicle landed, of course?"

The Secretary nodded, his facial features a bit more relieved than as he answered, "Yes, Mr. President. A team of scientists and special operatives handpicked from initiatives such as the Echelon from the NSA and the Guardian Directive of the CIA-"

"Ahh…I remember that one," the President interjected, "doesn't Jim Harper lead that unit? A mighty fine fellow if I remember correctly- a true  _patriot._ "

"Yes, Mr. President- in fact, the lieutenant will be in charge of this entire operation. Lastly, a squad of US Rangers will be tagging along to provide backup if needed, sir."

"Well, they better be all over this situation before any of the local populace get wind of this," the President added cautiously, "And who knows what strange things lie within that craft…?"

Many of the others nodded in agreement, occasionally providing a comment or two in between as the President continued conversing with the rest of the room.

"….And you know, General, that just the other day I discovered, from a map in some kindergarten I was visiting in Ohio no less, that there is actually a  _Moscow, Kansas_? Imagine the irony if something like this had actually landed there, too…"

* * *

_5: 12 AM_

He found himself jerked awake by the strangest of animals- and in the strangest of environments. He moved a hand over his face, tracing the multiple cuts and bruises, surely from the landing, he presumed, and observed with curiosity the animal, somewhat familiar to the Lupine mammals to be found in the zoos of his world- pink tongue hanging out of mouth as it barked loudly and ran around the floor, which creaked and made strange noises ever so slightly.

He rose from the small piece of furniture- primarily used for sleeping probably, he guessed, as he cautiously set his feet upon the floor for the first time. Moments later, he realised that he felt infinitely lighter. The gravitational pull of this world must be multitudes weaker than he would have thought earlier.

He glanced downward for a moment- thankfully, whoever had tended to him had not removed his raiment. He was still clothed in the customary attire as required per planetary protocols for the Exodus initiative- and another peek at the Mother Box clamped on his right arm assured him that it was quite functional as well.

Now that the dizziness from the landing had subsided, he could distinguish between the minute details which differed substantially from what he had been accustomed to- the air for particular smelled strange, somehow… _richer_  and less sterile than he had experienced for the duration of his on-going life cycle. His eyesight had become far keener, for some reason, and he could see clearly the primitive decorations of the abode he was in even though the hours well into late night and approaching dawn.

He was  _truly_ in a strange new world, he decided.

So then they had succeeded in escaping their doom after all? Cheated the wrath of the crimson light and found new hope of beginning life anew?

He longed to meet with his compatriots- especially those of his kin, who shared his bloodline.

"[….Unit Kel-Ex, locate fellow Kryptonians in the nearby vicinity. I would wish to share the joy of our newfound haven with them.]"

All the while, the animal had continued to keep on barking with no respite. He marveled at its boundless energy.

A moment later, the Mother Box beeped and replied in a monotonous tone, myriads of symbols, both modern and some archaic, flashing through its black screen.

"[Negative. There is no significant presence of similar lifeforms in the surrounding radius of two octillion Zaxurs. Initial scans reveal that, besides yourself-]"

He gasped out loud. Surely there was some mistake.

"[But then…what is the location that I am currently in? Did the on-board processors miscalculate somewhat and project the arc towards a different planet from our star charts…? Surely we can't be that off-course.]

"[…..Error. Failure in correlation of current location with existing data on star charts. Conclusion: Planetary location is uncharted. Search Expansion: Star System is exhibiting characteristics similar to class-4 archetype, yellow luminal…extrapolating with existing data…failure. Check with seventeen known galaxies travelable through sub-luminal methods…data not expansive enough to suggest any conclusive results. Conclusion: No existing data available to verify current location.]"

["By the crimson crown of the Wrathful Rao…how could such a dreadful divergence of this magnitude this have  _ever_  taken place…?]"

The Mother Box remained silent.

It was final: he was stranded in a world completely alien to him, even though he had centuries of spatial data accumulated by his race at his beck and call.

"Ahem." Jonathan Kent intruded, perhaps too politely he mused, as he entered the room, and he could see that the wounded man had found his intrusion particularly uncomfortable, for he tensed up immediately upon the other's arrival.

"Oh, sorry if I disturbed you- or better yet, if that damned dog had been driving your ears towards ruination…do you understand English, son?"

The man blinked a couple of times, before glancing towards the Mother Box on his right arm, and he muttered a few minuscule commands to it before he replied, in length, in a heavily accented form of English- almost entirely broken and disjointed, Kent noted.

"….I…under..stand."

By then, Kent had pretty much ruled out the notion that this man was any Soviet Cosmonaut- or even an American astronaut for that matter. No, this man carried himself in a way that was at once striking, and he was pretty sure that a Russian accent was nowhere near that strange.

"Who are you, son? Where are you from?" Kent asked at length as he sighed, dropping off into the recliner by the window.

The man fingered his long dark hair for a few moments, although his eyes were closed now and his temple seemed to be somewhat strained, as though he was concentrating on something. When he replied, this time his English was far smoother- indeed, he could have easily passed for one of those non-English speaking Europeans who only dabbled in the language occasionally when communicating with foreigners, Kent reckoned, like them Swedes or Norwegians and the like.

"My name is..El. I am come from Krypton."

"L? Like the letter that comes after K…?"

"Yes, Kel-Ex tells me it is the twelfth in line of your alphabetical order."

Kent marveled at the man's speech now- except for his peculiar choice of words, he now spoke with a  _perfect_ Midwesterner's accent. It was almost like he was copying right off Kent's own accent- but Jonathan dismissed the ridiculous notion immediately after.

"Krypton? Heck, isn't that the name of one of the elements in the Periodic Table? Or so I remember from my high school days…Chemistry wasn't exactly my strong suit…more like a Animal Husbandry kind of guy…"

The man who called himself El merely shrugged his shoulders, as he sat on the edge of the bed, though Kent noticed that it creaked a bit more loudly than it should have when he did so.

"It was the closest analogue to what the name of my planet would be once it is translated into your language. Look, sir, what is your name?"

"Jonathan Kent, Mister L."

"It's pronounced  _El._ With an E before the L."

" Hmm….is that really all there is to your name?"

"That is the name of the house where I hail from. To refer to oneself by first name in presence of those who are not of the bloodline is seen as impolite in our culture."

"Well, that's a pretty  _strange_  culture, then," Kent concluded as El walked towards the window and pulled the curtains apart a bit, his eyes widening a bit at the yellow rays of sunlight seeping through the grills.

"Well, would you look at that…the sun's rising up. Mighty fine sight, innit?"

"Is that…your resident star? It bestows  _yellow_ light…" El almost whispered, observing the light falling on the palm of his hand with the outmost curiosity.

"Yeah, it sure does. Why, does it glow some  _other_  colour wherever you come from..?"

"Yes. It glows bright crimson, and its red rays have…" El stopped short, a heavy sadness suddenly creeping up on his features.

"I…this is not a matter I would wish to further discuss, Jonathan Kent."

Kent raised his eyebrows at the man as he walked through the guest room door, and then turned his head back towards Jonathan.

"I would wish to observe the outer environment, sir. If you will guide me to the exit…?"

"Of course," Kent replied, rising from the recliner. He proceeded to lead him towards the front door.

"Sir, I must say I am a bit perplexed about your… _attitude_  about my presence. I did not expect you to be so readily accepting of my status as an off-worlder, to iterate the truth."

"Hah. Well, if you would have met my wife Mary -God bless her soul- she would have told you that one should readily believe in miracles when they are faced with one, Mr. El….Now there you go."

The door swung open, and El eagerly walked through it, eyes growing wide in wonder as he silently took in the new surroundings.

It was all so….lush, El decided; nature seemed to still maintain its foothold in the environment rather than let the dominant sentients overrun it without any second thought…though he shouldn't base his evaluation of the planet on just this one locale.

"Not too shabby a place, eh son?"

It was then, that El remembered he had forgotten something.

He had forgotten what he was supposed to  _protect_  during his entire journey.

By Rao, how could he have blundered about for this long without sparing any thought about that most important fact, that should be more crucial to him than his own life…?

"Jonathan Kent," El turned around to face the man, his face all grim and dark, "I require your help. Something very dear to me is still lodged inside my vessel."

* * *

_5: 24 AM_

"Jesus…" the US Ranger gasped aloud in wonder as he secured the perimeter alongside the others, several scientists closely examining the alien spacecraft, "this sure beats all those George Lucas movies, eh?"

Some of the other Rangers nodded in agreement- but most of the other personnel- especially the one dressed in black-bodysuits and wearing state-of-the-art night-vision goggles- remained impassive. And then there were the ones in charge of the operation- those newfangled spec ops type that dealt with any and all metahuman-related situations. They wore sleek, aerodynamically styled bodysuits- navy blue with streaks of golden running through- and dark gold headgear, looking every bit as deadly as the Echelon operatives, if not more.

For now, they were the few handpicked men and women operating in the Guardian Initiative, and there were many, of those few who knew of their existence, who held the opinion that this was the most finely-tuned singular task-force currently employed by the United States.

Suddenly, one of the Echelon operatives raised his hand- and a moment later, pointed towards the south-east, another hand set on the sides of his night-vision gear.

"Contact," he said simply, "Two men heading towards the site. Civilians, presumably."

Lieutenant James Harper walked up to the man as he pointed at the distinct silhouettes becoming more and more visible- and the Lt. signaled a few of the Rangers to apprehend them.

"Sergeant Stewart," he addressed the dark man in charge of the Rangers, who nodded at once, "apprehend those civilians and turn them around. We don't want any townspeople getting wind of this. The rest of you people, hurry up your efforts to arrange extraction. The more I stay here, the more I feel that this area isn't really secure."

Stewart moved forward at once, a couple of his men following him as he walked towards the two men- while Harper turned around and chose to better observe the rest of the team's efforts in gleaning some preliminary information off the vessel. But so far, it was evident that the scientists were having little to no success in getting anything out of the wreckage.

A minute had not passed when one of the Rangers tapped the Lt. on the shoulder, a sense of urgency evident in his voice as he uttered the next words.

"Lt. Harper…I think you should see  _this._ "

Lt. Harper turned around expectantly, and when he saw Sergeant Stewart standing by one of the Humvees with the two men he had just ordered to be sent back home- the instant reaction was one of annoyance. But that wholly subsided once he took note of the larger, and younger of the two men staring at him. He looked human enough- but his attire was otherworldly enough to convince Harper as to his origins.

"Greetings, gentlemen," El offered graciously, a pleasant smile plastered on his square jaw, "This is truly a momentous occasion. I am the owner of the vessel before you, and if you would just allow me, I have something of great import within it."

"El…Stay put. Don't say another  _word,"_  the older man offered, his eyes not at all trusting of the men gallivanting about his fields.

El turned around to look back confusingly- but before he could say anything, Lt. Harper was inches close to his face, scrutinizing his every move and forcing him to face the man once again.

"You…speak  _English_?"

"I learned the language, yes. But sir, I would exchange pleasantries later, I need to-"

"You. are. going. nowhere. Except in the back of that van. You too, farmer. You found this alien, I believe?"

"…What are you going to do with him…Lt. Harper?" Kent asked, gleaning the soldier's name from the name tag pinned above the blue chest piece.

"Whatever the government of the United States deems necessary. That is not mine to decide."

The entire team was now gathered around the Humvee, all eyes on El. Murmurs and hushed exchanges permeated through the otherwise silent night.  
"I..don't understand," El began once again, "Sir, if you want something in return from me, feel free to ask. I just-"

"Wait," one of the scientists suddenly interjected- a mildly tall man in his early forties, one hand correcting the horn-rimmed glasses upon his nose, "I am Professor Hamilton, and I…sir, can you tell us just what kind of weaponry did you employ in the front underside of the spacecraft? I am absolutely fascinated by-"

"That would be enough, professor," Lt. Harper darted back as he motioned for the crowd to return to their stations, and that they did, although reluctantly so.

"I…I would rather not share data about advanced weaponry. Not at this initial stage of contact, no," El expanded, while Kent glared at the man, astounded by how oblivious the man could as to his position in the current situation.

"Oh..?" Lt. Harper offered, a hint of sarcasm present in his tone, "why would that be, o noble and strange visitor?"

"I can…glean your kind's capacity for violence. Violence ravaged my kind and one other for nearly twelve centuries. I would not share data that would bestow the same fate upon another world."

"Why  _thank you_ for your insightful speech, sir. Now…," Lt. Harper opened the door of the Humvee, "Get. inside. car."

El simply glared at the Lieutenant.

"…Got a bit of a swagger stored in there, eh?" Harper said, before driving the butt of his rifle as hard as he could on the man's skull, instantly driving him to his knees. Strangely, though, there was no sign of blood from the place of impact.

"Stewart, load these two up in the Humvee. I have had enough theatrics for the day."

Lt. Harper turned away from them and had begun walking towards the vessel, when he noticed a strange creaking sound from behind.

Suddenly screams and yells exploded into the air, and when Harper had turned around, ready to bury dozens of bullets inside any of the intruders if needed- what he saw simply froze his feet to the ground.

"Dear Mary, mother of God..."

El had grabbed the bottom side of the Humvee- and in an incredible feat of strength, he had lifted the entire vehicle up…with his  _bare_ hands. Now he balanced the underside, his hands shifting to so that he held the entire thing like a battering ram over his head.

El was overtaken with rage- and he paid no attention to this new-found strength.

A PFC corporal beside Harper was still screaming his lungs out when he regained his senses enough to leap out of the way- but barely so. El leapt off in the air by a good five feet, smashing the Humvee against the ground where he had stood, while untold bullets were fired against him, his clothes riddled with bullets. The vehicle simply crumpled into a wreck against his might, and it was done with such frightening ease as though he was but crushing an empty soda can.

The hail of bullets continued to fly towards him.

In the first second, one bullet managed to pierce his skin.

In the second, most simply crushed to a slug against his now rock-hard skin.

In the third, all bullets simply  _bounced back_.

By the lord, what had Harper done…?

As confusion took hold of the most of the team, and many scattered away- El rushed towards his vessel with speed that would have put the fastest leopard to shame, his hands immediately settling on the elevated portion of the exposed interiors. El uttered access codes as fast as he could, but a moment later he realised that the entire onboard system was, of course, offline.

El simply grabbed the portion as hard as he could and then yanked.

"Halt! I command you to HALT!" Harper roared, finger pressed against the trigger as bullets continued to fly from the barrel. He couldn't believe his eyes- how on Earth could bullets  _bounce_ off-

"ARRGGHH!" Harper cried in pain as couple of the ricochets pierced his knees, and then another his arms. He fell to the ground, blood loss already making the rounds on his senses- through his bloodshot eyes, he saw the man dart away from the vessel, the uprooted portion tucked away under his right arm, scoop the other man from the ground- the farmer- up from where the Humvee had stood, and then  _leap_ right out of that crater.

"Lt. Harper," Professor Hamilton muttered darkly as he raised himself from the ground, "Do you have any  _idea_ what you have done?...Forget the Soviets. You may just have acquired the United States its most  _dangerous_ enemy yet."

* * *

_5: 25 AM_

El had overshot Kent's house by a mile at first, but by the time he had made it back to the man's modest abode, the rage and anger had subsided. And he marveled at what had just happened. That unparalleled strength, how the projectiles simply reflected off his metal-hard skin…it was overwhelming for even his mind.

However, his mind was dragged back to the ground once again when he had landed and laid Jonathan Kent on the ground- for the dog, leash tied to the front fence immediately started barking- but before long the bark turned into a long, sorrowful howl. He howled, again and again and again- and El saw the reason why. Jonathan Kent's hand lay clutched upon his chest, blood seeping through the dirty blue shirt as he struggled to remain conscious.

"No!" El roared, despair grabbing hold of his mind, as his hand ran over the wound, dangerously close to where the heart would be. Jonathan Kent smiled weakly at him, coughing blood through his teeth as eyes lifted up to the starry skies.

"[Unit Kel-Ex, select subroutines to carry out sutures on the man's wound. I cannot let his death be upon my conscience, I…]"

"[…Subroutine cannot be run. Sufficient medical add-ons not available.]"

"Damnation!" El screamed as he slammed his fists against the ground, and it shook mildly under the onslaught of his incredible strength. Tears threatened to overflow- but he could not let them break through. Tradition dictated that he must remain strong in the face of death, even those of loved ones…

"…Ahh…Now, Mr. El" Kent gasped, "Tell me..was that thing you went back for- is that thing inside  _that_?"

He pointed one wobbly finger towards the broken compartment. El nodded, the pain and sadness evident on his features as he struggled to decide what he should do.

"Well…then at least this old timer didn't bite the bullet in vain, eh?" Kent tried to laugh, but instead ended up coughing a bit more blood, "Listen, I have this last request…just bury me beside my wife- there you see that grave marker? Yes, beside there…I don't have any next of kin left, and I….hah, you know what, El? In the hour we have been together- it almost felt like you were a  _son_ to me, you know? Hah…and take care of that  _dog_  for me will you? I didn't even name the poor sucker, and…"

The man's hands went limp- and he spoke no more. The dog howled as loudly as it could, trying to break free of the leash, but failing to do so. Finally, it slumped against the ground, wet tears permeating its milky white coat of fur as it stared longingly towards its master.

"…Rest easy, my friend," El spoke at length, grabbing the man's hand tightly, "You provided me safe haven even though I am but a complete stranger to you. And I failed to protect you. I failed, just like I failed my home world. Just like I failed my family…"

* * *

_5: 34 AM_

El rose up from the freshly dug grave. The broken compartment lay beside him- and now he picked it up- eyes still moist with held back tears as he looked towards the now risen sun.

He felt fresh, somehow, as he was bathed in the star's yellow rays- but they were not enough to wash away the guilt lingering in his mind. Not only had he cost Jonathan Kent his life, but those who were at the landing site…he wondered, if he had caused any of them fatal harm through his recklessness as well?  
He hated it. That his first foray into this unknown world, this Earth had been full of violence and misunderstanding. He had hoped that it would all be left behind on Krypton. But it appeared that it was not to be.

"[….Master. I have successfully managed to activate the isolated operating system. Waiting for your command to open the hatch]," the Mother Box beeped unexpectedly, breaking El out of his reverie.

"[…Proceed, Unit Kel-Ex.]"

The Mother Box complied, and its sensors buzzed with activity, as it breached the isolated system's defenses. Within moments, the hatch flew open, and this time, El could not restrain the tears from flowing freely from his cheeks.

For these were not tears of sadness- but rather, tears of joy.

There, wrapped in the pristine, bright red blanket that Lara had made so lovingly over the past cycle- lay the most beautiful baby boy his eyes had ever witnessed. His bright blue eyes peeked through, as the tiny hands clawed at the edges of the red cloth.

His  _mother's_  eyes, El remarked proudly.

As he held his son forwards so the rays of the Sun fell directly on him, the boy seemed even more magnificent. El's eyes fell downwards, to the bright yellow shield emblazoned on the red fabric. It strangely mirrored a letter of the Roman alphabet of the natives- the letter S.

He remembered what the long-lost symbol meant once, to his people. Hope.

That was it. He must not abandon hope. Beyond all chance and reason, the two of them had managed to survive. He must cling to the belief that the others had survived as well.

"[Unit Kel-Ex, you are to record a message to be sent across all spatial directions via the electromagnetic spectrum.]"

"[Affirmative.]"

El turned around to face the pristine rays of the Sun, his eyes staring off into the distant horizon as he began narrating his message.

"[This is Jor-El of Krypton. I was the head of Terra-forming division of the Science Guild. Now that Krypton has been reduced to ashes, my position means nothing.

My evacuator arc has drifted drastically off course- and I have landed on an uncharted planet. The natives call it Earth. My arc is damaged beyond repair- and it has been requisitioned by the military of the nation I now find myself stranded upon.

But I have survived. And so has my son- Kal-El. And I know, deep in my heart, that my other fellow Kryptonians have survived as well. This is my distress call to those others- so that when receive this message, they may undertake a journey to rendezvous with us.

I am well aware that this message will take  _years_  to reach even the nearest possible destination. I am willing to wait. The baby I now hold in my arms as I record this message- my son Kal-El, who is no older than a half Kryptonian cycle- he may very well be the Last Son born on Krypton. But to me represents hope. He represents hope to all of us.

And I am willing to cling on to that hope for as long as needed. We shall integrate ourselves in the local society. We shall try our hardest to remain out of public scrutiny. And we shall wait. Till one or several of our fellow brethren descend upon this planet, and are ready to take us off this planet and towards our new haven.]"

El took a little sigh as turned away from the yellow star, his eyes only fixed upon his adorable son as he thought about course of action would be best to pursue hereafter.

"[Until then….this Earth shall be our new home.]"


	2. Brave New World Part I

_5 Months Later…_

_9th November, 1985_

Martha Phillips groaned when she sensed that aroma make its way through her nostrils- it was one she knew all too well. And sure enough, when she turned around, a few loose strands of hair whipping in the wind stream sweeping in through the open windows of the Buick Station Wagon as it drove through the highway- yet  _another_  home-baked cookie- crusted with that unique blend of chocolate and peanuts like only Ma Philips could bake them now waited for her, held firmly between the work-worn hand of said mother- Annette Marion Phillips, matron extraordinaire and currently beaming at her daughter proudly as though she was returning home in time for a victory parade or something along the lines.

"Aww, Ma," the aspiring journalist pouted, and at that moment her features, usually mature beyond her years, turned into something nostalgically youthful as she gently moved the wizened hand away from her own jaw, "I really don't have the appetite for that, now. We just ate at that diner like, forty minutes ago."

Ma nodded as she averted her gaze from her twenty-something daughter, though Martha could see the signs of dejectedness beneath that ever-brimming façade of optimism.

"I am  _full,_ really," Martha reassured her firmly, "Why don't you give one to George there? "

"No thanks, ladies," her brother's deep voice sounded out from the driver's seat, "Not feeling really hungry either, so…"

"Ahh, alright, alright," Ma spoke at length, her tone rife with mirth and wizened features nevertheless as full of life as ever, as she herself took a bite out of the cookie, "It's not a big deal. But…Martha, dear. Tell me, you are absolutely okay with this? Moving back to Smallville from the city after so long?"

Martha raised her eyebrows half-amusedly, though Ma now seemed to be very much serious about the query- despite the matter being discussed thoroughly and being laid to rest.

"Ma, like I have said a million times before, I am  _fine_ with it. If it's about my career that you are worried sick about-"

"Well, your father wouldn't really approve of you leaving that job at the Star at a whim like you did just for him, and-"

"Well, his  _daughter_ can be every bit as stubborn as him, can't he? We all need to be together in times like these, alright? Family  _always_ comes first."

Ma stared at her like a proud mother hen at that, and Martha couldn't help but break off into a wide grin stretching from ear to ear as she squeezed Ma's palm.

Pa had fought the good fight with Leukemia for far, far too long- and she didn't even dare think of not being by his side- of not supporting the man who had gotten her into journalism in the first place- for even the barest fraction of a moment.

"Besides…there are like… _four_ 'papers still operating out of Smallville, right? Ehh, I will land a job at one of them before long. You will see, everything will be alright…."

Suddenly, though, the Station Wagon came abruptly to a halt, and before Ma or Martha could ask George exactly what may have possessed him to apply the brakes without any possible rhyme or reason- Martha saw the  _strangest_ of sights through the window to her right.

It wasn't that  _strange,_ Martha would reflect back over the years when she thought of that moment over and over again- but for the life of her she didn't know why she felt like she did then, staring dumbfounded at him with his thumb raised up in the air.

A lone man- dressed in extremely baggy clothes: a striped blue and red shirt and faded jeans, one sturdy hand holding the handle of the sole luggage trolley he was carrying and the other around the leash of…a  _dog._ A Collie, if Martha knew her farm animals right- and a beaut of one of too, stretching out a good four feet, if not more; it's white coat glistening in the sunlight, tongue wagging out of open mouth as both master and companion approached their car now. His hair was tied in a hastily made ponytail, a mild stubble adorning his…almost  _impossibly_ square jaw. A good natured, unassuming smile was plastered on his features as he bent down to greet the ladies, the pouch-like bag hung over his bag leaning to the left a bit as he did so.

"...Hello, ma'ams," he turned his head around to nod towards George peering around the back of his seat, "You too, good sir."

"Umm…Hello," Martha replied, seeming a bit more winded than she would care to admit.

"Now _there's_ a lad with mighty fine manners, children," Ma laughed merrily as she peered closer to the window over Martha's arms, "Where are you heading to, son?"

"...Here and about, ma'am. If you could take me as far as McPherson, I would be immensely grateful towards you folks. It's…heh.. _him_ , you see," he motioned towards his dog, who for some reason seemed intensely interested in sniffing the bottom of the luggage trolley that he had been carrying around, "There's no way on Earth they let me take a big lug like him aboard public transport and the like."

"You are going south-west, right?" George offered, "How about we do you one better. Wichita sound alright to you, Mr…?"

"Kent, sir. Jonathan Kent," Kent replied, "And that would be really great, sir."

"Call me George," George grunted as he got out of the front door, opening the door at the back and motioning Kent to follow, "There's Ma, and Martha. Now we better get him on the car real quick, alright?"

"Sure. Krypto, you heard the man. Off you go now!"

Krypto immediately barked merrily, before following George and Jonathan as they led him into the back space, while Martha continued to peer at its master in a curious gaze.

Who named their dogs after Elements of the Periodic Table, now?

Though, she saw something poking out of the small hole in the back pouch, that was infinitely more strange. Upon further inspection, she was, however, sure that she was not mistaken.

A  _baby's_ face was poking out of that back pouch!

And eerily enough, as though he could suddenly feel her gaze fall upon his visage, his eyes opened, little lips pouting as his sight took in the full blunt of the sunlight piercing through the skies that day.

"Gah..?" he inquired quizzically, and immediately Martha felt as though someone had just pulled on her heart strings.

Why, she didn't have the foggiest clue, but at that moment she was clueless about a helluva lot others things too….

* * *

_15 Minutes Later…_

The young child seemed just as mesmerized by his new admirers as they were, or maybe even more; wide, expressive blue eyes peered at those two beaming faces, as he lay on the lap of Ma Phillips, who coddled him with the utmost care and love, while Martha fiddled his soft and surprisingly not so dry skin with her fingers every now and then.

Jonathan Kent seemed to be just as glad that his hosts were such pleasantly surprised by the child as well. It was a welcome respite from the long journey that he had been on, and of course, the dog was just as adept at showing his gratitude, an occasional eager bark to be heard from the back from time to time, as the Buick peacefully made its way through the surprisingly idyllic landscape. Or so it was to Kent's eyes, at least.

"Bless my soul…he is such a calm and quiet boy, isn't he?" Ma spoke towards Jonathan, "But…not  _all_  that demure, or the like. Those eyes…it's like he is taking in all the wonders around him, and just keeping it to himself, you know?"

Martha nodded, herself feeling quite invigorated by the presence of the little one, and how it seemed to have lightened up everyone around from the grim and dreary thoughts that had been weighing down their minds for so long.

"He takes after his mother in that department," Kent added, though immediately after his throat seemed a tad bit hoarse as he continued on, "At times, I could feel her gaze pierce all the way down to my  _soul_ …"

"Oh, I am…sorry, Jonathan," Martha offered apologetically from behind, "What…happened?"

"Accident," he replied simply, and it seemed even he was somewhat surprised by the bluntness of his answer, "Or perhaps more correctly, a cruel twist of fate. That's all I am going to say about that. After we lost her…well, we had no other relatives round about in the vicinity, and me all by my lonesome raising a boy like him, in the city no less…, plus Krypto there really doesn't like the suburbs either…so here we are, this unlikely bunch, looking to find a home…closer to our  _roots_ , you could say."

Though his words were quite plain and concise, Martha could sense the wave of emotions work their way through him as he quietly nudged back to his position. She had always been the kind to internalise whatever grief or sorrow she would acquire in order to press forward- but that didn't mean that those pains would just dissolve into nothingness in the depth of her heart. They had a nasty way of seizing upon your thoughts when you least expected it, really.

It haven't been that long since she had actually met this man- but she couldn't help but possess a quiet admiration for this Jonathan Kent. She had met  _kind_ people before, of course- and more than half of them were kind for all sorts of wrong reasons, but rarely did she come upon people of such unapologetic honesty and possessing that degree of conviction as well.

"Hmm…" George muttered, perhaps for the first time since they had begun anew, "I don't I caught the little tyke's name there, Kent."

"Oh, my mistake," Jonathan responded, rubbing the back of his headed as a sheepish smile graced his features, "The name's Kal..llark."

"Clark?" George reiterated, while Martha noted, that for the briefest moment, Jonathan seemed to have grown unusually jittery all of a sudden.

"Yeah," Jonathan responded, now more at ease, "Clark."

"Hmm. And how long you have been on the road now, Kent?"

"Well, five or six hours roundabout."

"Uh huh," George grunted, eyes steady and unreadable as they remained fixed towards the road, "And little Clark has been alright so far with being out in the hot sun like that? I mean, it's been a really sunny day so far."

"George!" Martha chided her brother in a stern tone, "A little easy with the tough guy routine, alright? You are not even the sole reporter in the car, for Christ's sake…!"  
"Hey, I am just _asking._ You know, maintaining a .. _healthy_  interest, as you eloquent types would say."

Jonathan raised his hands upwards, shrugging his broad shoulders as he proceeded to reply.

"Well, Martha, he  _has_ got a point about that. Well, I don't have much more to say than…well, the Lord has been really generous to me," Jonathan paused for a bit, a pensive look to be found in those dim blue irises as he pondered how best to continue.

"Clark's an astoundingly hardy kid, I can tell you all that much. He gives me all the more strength in order to strive to provide for him- not only a better home, but a good upbringing as well. In this age of cynicism, I know it may sound a little corny, but…he's my own little miracle boy. He makes me believe in things that I would not be able to believe on my own."

Ma stifled a sigh, and Martha suspected that she may have been try to hide a stay tear or two welling up in her eyes- or were those tears her  _own_? At any rate, George decided to break the unease once more, as even Jonathan had seemed to have fallen uncharacteristically quiet by then.

"Well, that's okay enough for me," George concluded, a slight smile on his gruff features, "There you go, Martha- another little footnote to add to that 'memoir of the people' of yours. If you ever decide to publish that is."

Martha punched his exposed shoulder playfully at that, and he winced away in equally casual fashion. Clark seemed somewhat amused at that too, the motion eliciting a gurgle somewhat resembling a giggle out of the little tyke for a second or two.

"You know, Jonathan, you should come visit Smallville sometime," Ma offered, Martha noting that she was back in her 'jolly wise crone' mode once again, "I fancy a quiet soul like you would like our little town. We really don't get that many outsiders visiting over there, so it would be refreshing to have a gentleman like you back there for a while. Plus, I think Clark here is going to  _love_ the landscape there too..!"

"I appreciate the gesture certainly," Jonathan replied, "…I will most certainly consider that. But…thank you once again for that, ma'am. It's nice to know that we have something to…look forward to. You folks already have been so hospitable in this short while, and…"  
"Oh, can it, will ya?" Ma laughed, once again youthful exuberance piercing through the veil of old age as it did in those moments, "And call me Ma, right? Everyone does."

"Eh, alright…Ma,". Jonathan felt oddly relieved at that, to be able to call someone who was by all rights a total stranger by such an affectionate moniker.

The world still held its fair share of surprises, he mused inwardly as the journey continued on.

* * *

_21st June, 1986_

**Oregon, Texas**

Jim Harper rolled the wheelchair forward towards the little wine bar in the corner of his modest home- but even though it had been close to a year since he had gotten that cursed contraption, he was still prone to sudden moments of forgetfulness. Not remembering that he didn't possess that much vigour or mobility that he was used to possessing for the greater part of his adult life. That his legs had to be severed from the knee downwards. That the rest of the world had simply moved on and left him behind- there on that little piece of land that he could call his home, his parents long since dead by the time he had returned.

The General saw that the former Lieutenant seemed to have halted in his tracks, and so he took it upon himself to fetch the drinks and the glasses, promptly raising from the sofa and striding towards the bar himself.

"It's alright, Harper," Sam Lane told the man, giving a brief pat on his shoulders as he passed him by, "I can see to the wine myself- if you could just point out the cupboard where you keep the glasses and such…?"

"..It's there," Harper spoke, his voice uneven as he showed the General where to find the drinks, "…Sir, you really didn't need to do that."

"Nonsense," Lane responded, now carrying two glasses and a bottle of bourbon back to the little coffee table by the sofa, "The President gave you the Congressional Medal of Honor for the service you have done for your country- the least  _I_ can do is to serve this lucky man some wine, right?"

Harper smiled slightly- though it was more out of his respect and admiration for the man than anything else. He certainly did not consider himself ' _lucky'_  at the moment at any rate.

General Lane seemed to have lost himself in pensive thought for a moment or two himself, simply opening the bottle with a cork opener and pouring the dark bourbon onto the conical glasses. They had a quiet toast to themselves, and Lane seemed to well appreciate the maturity of the tonic after a sip or two, a slight sparkle in those dull grey irises as he put down his own glass.

"Hmm, never knew that '59 was that much of a good year for Bourbon."

"Well, my father was known to dabble in such things from time to time, Sir," Harper offered, his tone a little more somber than he had intended, "A connoisseur, you could call him even."

Lane nodded thoughtfully, as he reached for the military jacket he had slung over the sofa's arm. Sam Lane was probably not that much older than Harper, he noted- at least compared to other high brass he had the opportunity to come into contact with. There was a significant amount of grey in that short-cropped hair, sure, but the remaining hazel was still quite raw and possessing that natural sheen not to be found from rigorous use of hair dyes.

The General seemed to fish in the coat packets for something for a bit, then brought out a sheet of folded paper from within.

Ahh, so that must be the reason for which a two star General had made the point to travel all the way to his doorsteps- after all, even though he had been a Ranger for a good five years of his professional life- it had been as an operative of the CIA that he had… _retired_ from his career.

"Son..here, read this. I know you have done already so much for God and Country, but there's this last thing we would ask from you."

He grimaced a little bit as he took the paper- he  _certainly_ didn't feel like he had done much for anything. He rather felt like he had let everyone down with that stupid stunt in Kansas- his unit, first and foremost, and maybe even his country. Heck, the world was raving about the muck-up the Soviets had made with the Chernobyl disaster, but for some ridiculous reason he felt as though him failing in his mission like he did was somehow infinitely worse for the entire world.

He didn't feel like he had helped anything at all.

He could have done  _so…so_ much more if he had still been in the Guardian Initiative.

Opening the folds- he couldn't help but raise his eyebrows upon seeing the twin emblems- both depicting a bald eagle perched atop a star-centered shield; but the intrinsic differences were instantly familiar to his eyes. A third emblem lay at the bottom- the globe with two ribbons circling over, a laurel spread out at the bottom.

CIA, NSA, and then…DIA (Defense Intelligence Agency) working in collaboration like this?

His eyes darted towards the General once again. A Major General…of course. He has to a deputy director for one of the agencies…and he had his money on the DIA. That's pretty unorthodox of the current administration- to place someone so relatively young in such a critical position. Then again, the current underlying situation the intelligence communities now found themselves in did require a certain degree of unorthodoxy and improvisation, he mused.

He skimmed through the more or less jargon- filled letter, though the words 'Section IV of Project C.A.D.M.U.S" caught his eye.

"Cadmus?" Harper reiterated, pen twirling in hand as he continued to read through.

"That's a name you are going to hear a lot more throughout the years, son. A large part of it is going to transition into the mainstream community over a few years- but that's not where you are concerned with. I suppose by now you have understood what we are asking from you?"

Harper nodded, more or less perfectly understanding what the entire purpose of the visit was, now. He put pen to paper and signed where it was required without hesitation, and handed the folded paper back to the General- who took with a nod of gratitude and ..perhaps, quiet pride.

There was just one last thing Harper had to know though- it had resurfaced in his mind ever since General Lane had walked into his house half an hour ago.

"Sir…is there any progress in acquiring…the-"

"We call him subject BETA now," Lane finished the sentence for him, "Biological Extra Terrestrial Alpha. And as regards to your question" Lane paused as he walked towards the front door, Harper following his side in the chair, "We lost his trail shortly after the initial contact."

Harper nodded at that, a disappointment creeping up his spine at that news. Well over a year, and they had lost complete track of what could have been the most dangerous liability to the security of his nation. It was hard to not let that disappointment show up on his stoic features as he opened the door for General Lane.

"You know," Lane added, almost as an afterthought, "There are times I wonder. He learnt the entire English language in the space of an hour and a half. He's had over a year by now. Just how deeply has subject BETA integrated himself into human society by now…?"

"It's a question well worth asking, sir."

"Indeed, Lieutenant," Lane agreed as he stood once again at the doorsteps, "It's the kind of question that keeps me awake at nights for hours at end, more often than not. Frankly, I am mildly surprised that I am not hearing that's the case with a hella lot of my colleagues, though…"

* * *

_23rd October, 1986_

**Smallville, Kansas**

George sighed in relief as he disembarked from the tractor, signaling the driver of the thresher rolling through the fields a few meters away.

Reaching for the bottle of water, and another hand reaching for the already dirt-stained handkerchief in his pocket, the elder Phillips could not help but smile at being greeted by that wide grin plastered on the face of Jonathan Kent- who, strangely enough, did not seem nearly as exhausted by doing farm work for the last couple of hours as George did- hell, more like he seemed to have gotten a decent workout, judging from the bulging biceps exposed by his farm gear.

"Well, you sure you didn't spend a lot of time tilling the land and the like before this, Kent?" George grunted after gulping down the water, as both of them headed towards the Phillips family stable.

"Well…I have had some previous knowledge about land and how it works, you could say, George. Just maybe not so…direct as what we just did, though."

"Heh," George muttered half amusedly, wiping the voluminous sweat off his face with the handkerchief, "I like how you kind of spin people around in riddles like that. Never get into the heart of the matter, eh?"

"Well, there  _are_ a whole lot of unnecessary complications wound up in my past," Kent replied a bit more thoughtfully, fingers absentmindedly scratching the stubble he now had on his square jaw, "and I don't want to bore folks with all the talk of the past. Looking towards the future is more like what I prefer, I suppose."

"Uh huh. Look, Kent, I appreciate it, you know?"

"You mean lending a hand with your work today?"

"Well, that and a whole lot more. I know you came here with little Clark and that dog to get a little respite from it all, but here you are, staying in this little hick town for a month running, helping all of us cope with losing Pa and that. Making Ma and Martha laugh again with that weird charm of yours. Hell, even the townsfolk appreciate your presence, you know?"  
Jonathan simply gave an understanding smile, waving his hands at Martha, who had come out of the stable with Clark held firmly between her arms- both her and the child laughing joyously at some private joke they seemed to share between each other, while Ma shook her head from within, busy at mixing the right amount of ingredients into the pool for cows' feed.

"Well, I would be lying if I didn't say that I wasn't a bit selfish in coming here," Kent began at length, "Clark seems to be…well at  _home_ in you good folks' company. This last month has been just as good to me, if not more, as it has been for you, George."

"Well, ain't that fine and dandy to hear. Pity though, that you have to leave eventually. When have you gotta skeddadle for your work in Arkansas, now?"

"Yeah, about that," Jonathan replied, a sheepish grin plastered on his features as he rubbed the back of his head, "I am moving here, to Smallville. Permanently too, it seems."

"Oh?" George stared at Kent for a moment as they approached the stable, "Well that's some news. Why tell this to  _me_ first of all people though?"

"I  _was_ going to announce that when all of us were together see, but…well, you kind of asked about it, and I hate to not answer a question when someone asks that right to my face. So…there's that, I guess."

"…You got a strange sense of truth and righteousness in there, Kent. But ehh then there's a whole lot of other things mighty strange about you, anyways. Where you moving into hereabout, then?"

"Ohh, there was this little little farmhouse lying about untended, just across where the Langs live, see? The owners live off the state, have done so for the better part of the last thirty years, I hear."

"Yeah, I remember that one. Alexander Luthor, was the old farmer's name who used to own that. After Lionel grew up- we used to be in the same class, I remember- and the old man croaked, young Luthor simply moved out to one of them new-fangled cities that started springing out a couple years ago. You know, Coast City, Keystone City,  _Central_ City, and what's the last one, now…"

"Metropolis, I believe it's called," Jonathan finished for George, "But at any rate, I managed to buy the property, and that's where me, Clark and the dog are moving in after we can get all the clothes, furniture and stuff brought here from Arkansas."

"Well…it's a good piece of land," George admitted, "And it would be good to have you here as a permanent resident too, you know? Aside from childbirths this town has scarcely seen any new folk take up residence over the years, really…"

"Well, let's announce the good news to Ma and Martha shall we? Besides it's been some time since I fed Krypto too, bet he's been downright starving by now…"

Yeah, well he better not go after my personal stash of horse feed like he did last time…"

* * *

_15th November, 1989_

**Hartford, Connecticut**

_"….if you seek peace, if you seek prosperity for the Soviet Union and eastern Europe, if you seek liberalization, come here to this gate,"_  President Reagan's voice, normally calm and measured, though always quite robust and full of energy, now thundered through the television speakers as the news clip continued on, showing the veteran commander in chief giving the speech two years prior in front of the Brandenburg Gate, " _Mr. Gorbachev, open this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall_!"

Same Lane, seated in the living room of his own home for once as opposed to being otherwise occupied by his job, could not help but sport a wry smile as he picked up the receiver of the phone, fingers engaged in dialing the numbers while the news now switched to the newscaster, joined by two additional commentators at either side.

"And he did," the newscaster began in a reverent tone, "From measures such as the Perestroika and Glasnost, President Gorbachev has pioneered, under the auspices of leaders such as our own President of the United States, the liberation of the entire Eastern Europe from the clutches of Communism, and it's impact was most felt in East Germany in November 9th- and already that day has been etched into the history books, when the Berlin Wall fell and ostensibly the Iron Curtain was removed once and for all, as-"

Lane, though, had bigger problems on his mind now than hearing the umpteenth broadcast pronouncing good old Communism being trounced by Uncle Sam and his allies, so he put the TV on mute as he waited for the line to connect.

It did so after a few seconds, and the familiar voice of Emil Hamilton, operational head of Section IV of C.A.D.M.U.S. poured through the speaker. Section IV had now come to be called as 'S.T.A.R.' Division, one of the many similarly named branches that had opened due to the massive specialisaton that was going on in the entire project itself.

Of course that was all background noise now- and Lane immediately got to the point after the initial pleasantries were exchanged.

"Alright, Hamilton…I understand you submitted that Annual Budget like you were supposed to do by the end of this week?"

"Well, yes…I suppose I did, General. Why, did I actually forget to finalise the draft..? I have been admittedly very busy in certain developments with the-"  
Lane groaned loudly. Hamilton was well known for his frequent bouts of absent-mindedness- how he had managed to have a hand in pioneering four of the last ten technological breakthroughs of the decade, Lane hadn't the foggiest clue.

"..Well, I  _did_ get the draft on my desk last Tuesday. And…can you explain to me why exactly you ironed out one particular…long standing project from the balance sheet, as it were?"

"…Oh bother. You are referring to Operation: Enduring Vigilance, aren't you?"

"The very same, Professor. So, what gave you the bright idea to cross out that little name off the draft, now?"

"…Look, Lane," Hamilton's voice was suddenly more serious, a stunning chance from his usually apologetic tone, "I know just how adamant you are about securing subject BETA's location. But the truth of the situation is that, by now it's downright impossible, is what it is. What are the four goddamned satellites you want to have requistioned for this purpose even supposed to do? Squinting for beings who could leap an eighth of a mile? Strength great enough to lift up cars like paperweight? By now, there are at least two dozen metahumans who fit that particular criteria. People like Captain Marvel, the soon to be defunct Rocket Red operatives, and these bunch of other heroes, like Alan Scott from the JSA…hell, half of these people are able to  _fly_ as well, and-"

"I didn't ask you to express your  _opinion_ about the matter, Hamilton. The project requires…what south of 30 billion? We spend at least five times that much each year on nuclear proliferation, and I will be damned if I let you talk me into disbanding the program."

"Well…you  _are_ my superior on the project. I won't argue with you on the matter, seeing as it's not  _my_  money that you are asking to be invested into this project, so feel perfectly free to put the entry back in the 'balance sheet' as you said. Now if you will excuse me, I have more urgent matters to attend to, like this meeting I have with this quaint little software company executive…  _what's his name again, Joyce? Oh yeah, right, …Bill Gates III_ …,  _right, how can I forget a name like that-"_

Lane put down his own receiver when he realised that the Professor had forgot to place the one at the other end of the connection into the main set.

"I swear, some day idiots like him will be the death of me…" Lane muttered under his breath as he got up from the sofa, heading towards his wife, Joanne, who was cradling their second born- the five month old Lucy- in her arms, standing not far away from his seven year old firstborn, the somewhat indifferent Lois doodling something in her notepad on the dining table.

Jesus, he had grown quite detached from that girl, hadn't he? Or perhaps it was the other way around. He didn't know. Seven was too young a age for children to rebel or do any of that counter culture mania that seemed to pop up every once in a decade. Or so he had thought at least. You never know with kids. Each generation infinitely more befuddling than the previous one, his own esteemed father had drilled into him.

He tried to make eye-contact with the girl, but the raven haired child seemed predominantly occupied with the random doodling on her beloved notepad. Yeah, he could see her turn into a latter day Woodward and Bernstein just yet.

These little holidays to home were already quite scarce as they were- and now he was feeling as though they were just flying right past him now, brief interludes before burying himself again in his work.

At least pursuing subject BETA remained the one constant of his life throughout the years, he mused.

* * *

_19th February, 1992_

**The Cemetery, Smallville, Kansas**

Jonathan held onto Clark's shoulders tightly, as they stood under the shade of a particularly large tree- huddled with fellow mourners at the passing of the last remaining Phillips- George had died in a simple car accident, but then again, there was nothing 'simple' about death. Specially for the loved ones of the departed- and perhaps even more so when counting the fact that Martha had so recently come to terms about losing Ma to a stroke a year earlier. The burial and the following ceremony with now being done with, she was currently amongst the Langs, standing not too far away from where the father and son were now, as the neighbors tried to provide her comfort as best as they could under the circumstance.

Life was such a precious, beautiful thing, and it was always such a waste when he saw one flame of such hope and energy being cruelly extinguished like that. He had come to regard Ma and George as not only good-natured human beings as a whole, but for the last two years, they had been his in-laws as well.

"I don't understand," Clark finally spoke at length, his tiny voice rife with uncertainty and confusion, "Why is Ma so sad? Why is  _everyone_ so sad? Why are we all wearing black?"  
"…You don't like wearing black?" Jonathan asked, peering down at the young child as he was wont to do, scratching the streamlined beard that now graced his face. His hair although a little longer, was still styled in that ponytail as it had been since… _forever,_ it almost seemed to Jonathan.

"I  _hate_ it. It's such a glum colour. It's just…nothing. Plus, I hate wearing this much tight clothes, too."

"Well, pal, you better get in practice of wearing tuxedoes before long, otherwise you are going to run into some trouble when it comes to landing girls at a later age, see."  
"…That's just gross, Pa," Clark scoffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets, "But you didn't really answer my question from before, now."  
Jonathan spared a brief smile for the child- he was a lot smarter than his looks would confer, it seemed. The smile passed though, replaced once again by the glum expression present on pretty much everyone's faces for the last few days.

"…It's your uncle George, Clark. He…well, he left us after that accident. He went to a better place, Clark. Like your grandma before him."

"…That doesn't make sense."

Jonathan's expression grew a bit darker. Perhaps, the little tyke was maturing at too fast a rate to his liking.

"Well, that's about as much as you are going to get at this age, son."

"Well, you are lying. I can still see Uncle George here, for one thing. He didn't  _go_ anywhere."

Jonathan was caught thoroughly off-guard with that- almost losing his center of balance for a the barest fraction of a second before composing himself once again.

"…Clark, we are going to speak in…that  _other_ language I taught you, alright? In exactly that amount of low voice like we practiced."

Clark raised his eyebrows at that, but complied without much second thought. As they spoke in the native tongue of the Kryptonians, their lips barely moved- and the sounds being uttered were of too low a frequency for even the keenest canine to detect with their ears.

"[…What do you exactly…see, son?]"

"[…well, I can see Uncle George, lying in this strangely decorated…wooden box. Dressed in the stupid clothes like all men are wearing. Hands upon chest, eyes closed…like he is sleeping. But why sleep that deep under the  _ground_?]"

Jonathan stared at his son for what seemed like the longest time, a grave sense of urgency now seizing upon his mind.

"[…how long have you been able to  _see_ like that, Kal-El?]"

"[…I don't remember that well. A short bit after I could hear like you, I reckon.]"

"[Why didn't you tell me about this before..?]"

"[Well, you never asked. And I thought you ..just knew.]"

Well, this added a whole another dimension to whatever fledgling theories he had developed about the growth of these powers they had possessed. Jor-El possessed miraculously keen eyesight, yes, but at best he could see things as best as the most gifted eagle, perhaps. His eyes definitely could not pierce straight through six feet of soil and dirt like that.

"[…I don't understand. I can't even hear the small beating anymore. Maybe if I saw more-]"

"[No.]" Jonathan had almost shouted, startling Clark with the sudden rise in amplitude.

If the child were to see beneath the coffins of each and every dead men and women in Smallville like that…he could not take that risk.

"[No.]" he said again once more, a little less forcefully as he bowed his head and motioned Clark to turn around, "[Let us head for our home. We have much to discuss about regarding our situation, it seems. Now let us revert to English once again…]"

"...Is Ma going to be in on that talk?" Clark asked rather bluntly, and Jonathan paused a little bit, a brief flash of the turmoil and uproar threatening to spill forth into the man's psyche appearing on his dull blue eyes as he did so.

"That's part of the discussion as well, I suppose…"

* * *

_28th February, 1992_

Martha stood outside the stables, feeling as though the weight of the entire world had just been thrust upon her by the man who she had called her husband for the last two years.

"…I don't believe this," Martha's voice was shaking, as a tormented Jonathan stood in front of her, "What kind of stupid joke are you trying to…"

Jor-El bit his lip, averting his gaze towards the ground, the starry skies and general quietness making him feel like he was the loneliest person in the world at that moment. He had wrestled within for the last week or so about whether or not to reveal this to her. He had changed his mind more times than he could count. No more. He wouldn't back down now, and he would have to accept the consequences, whatever they may be.

"Martha, this is no joke. My real name is...Jor-El. And Clark…he is Kal-El. We are natives of the planet Krypton. Escaping from a doomed world, we both got stranded on this world about seven years ago in the reckoning of the Gregorian Calendar, and our arc was acquired by the US government on the night of our arrival-"

"Please. Just stop," Martha cried, "You are just making this up. First your dog, now you name a fictional planet after a chemical element. Don't mess around with me like that. Please…"

"…Look into my eyes, Martha. You are a reporter. You have to know truth when it's staring you dead in the eyes. Tell me, do they like the eyes of a lying man?"

Martha peered into those dull blue, almost impenetrable irises for what seemed like hours at end- before resolving that however improbable it had sounded, it must be true.

There were people flying around claiming they derived powers from magic, supposed madmen and lunatics claiming they hailed from other dimensions or mythical kingdoms thought long lost to the abyss…was that too much of a far leap to believe that the two most important persons in her life were strange visitors from outer space?

It had to be true, she reasoned.

She felt like she had been stabbed with the sharpest dagger at the most vulnerable point in her heart.

It was only her undying journalistic spirit that made her ask the next question.

"Why now?" she murmured, her breath growing heavy, "Why wait all these years?"

"…We both possess…abilities. Due to exposure to the myriads of waves being emitted from the yellow sun. Clark has shown signs of…unexpected development. His powers are growing at a faster, and more erratic rate than I had initially gleaned. It would simply be futile to continue to hide the matter from you."

"…Why do you call him Clark? That's simply a façade, right? Why even  _bother_ to do all this-"

"Please, Martha. He is Clark Kent just as much as he is Kal-El. He is a child of both worlds now. He is  _your_ son just as much he is mine. Please…just don't let this…"

"…Who am I supposed to trust now?" Martha murmured, warm tears sliding down her face as he fought to prevent her knees from buckling, "You are not my husband anymore. Clark…I don't know if I can take this. It's just…"

"…I almost decided upon slipping out in the middle of the night, you know? Just whisk Clark and the dog away to parts unknown without letting you know. What we had for the last few years…it was a beautiful dream. When you would have woken up, and seen that we had disappeared, it would have been like the dream had simply ended.

"But I figured…you deserved more of an explanation than that."

Martha didn't respond, her eyes vehemently fixed at the muddy ground as he struggled for more words.

"…I may have been Jor-El when I ventured out of Dighton all those years ago, Martha, but now, I am just Jonathan Kent. Plain old hick farmer with the most ridiculous beard this side of the Missouri. I struggled with finding any signs of my fellow Kryptonians for the first couple of years…but even an eternal optimist like me saw the hard truth after a while. Me and Clark…we were just a fluke. A joke of cosmic nature perhaps. I don't know if the others are alive or dead. If they are on the next star system or in the next galaxy. I don't have… _any_ darned idea about that at all. Even after all these years of research.

"Over the years, I abandoned that little Kryptonian in me, little by little. I taught Clark about the customs and how to control his abilities as well as I could, but I thought more and more of myself as an earth-born as time passed. By the time we took our vows, Martha, I had fallen completely and hopelessly in love with you. It may have seemed like a logical choice, to marry to provide a good mother for Clark. But I was always driven by my heart than my brain. And this stupid heart told me 'go get her. You don't get more than one second chance in your life.'"

Warm tears were now flowing down Jor-El's face as well, as he made himself stare straight at the quivering Martha, who seemed to have been affected by this honest heart-to-heart as much as he was.

"Please, we can make this work. I am as ticked off about my beard as the next sane person is- it's part of the increase in density in both of our bodies' structure, so it's gotten darn near impossible to shave. But I promise to try to work around that, at least. Every little thing that bothers you, I can…Lord, I am running around in circles, ain't I? After Ma, and George…we four are all we have left in the whole wide world. You, me, Clark. Even the damned dog. But we are as pure a family as there has ever been. Please. We can make this work."

Martha finally spoke after that, wiping the tears with still shaking hands, not being able to draw level with his eyes yet as she took one step closer.

"…Is the dog an alien as well, now?"

"Krypto? No, he is as hundred percent earth-born as it gets. Though his boundless curiosity and energy sometimes baffles me as to his origin…"

"Yeah. We have pretty strange creatures down here on Earth, as well. I am sure you have probably guessed that by now, and…"

Jonathan drew closer as well, and after what seemed like an eternity, he wrapped his large arms around her tiny, almost fragile frame. He held her more tenderly than she ever remembered him as, slowly, but surely, she raised her arms around him as well.

They both cried openly after that. For as long as they could, until the load weighing them down had gotten lighter.

"…I have… _so_ many questions," she said at length with a sigh. Already, she was feeling a helluva lot lighter than before.

"We can get to that later on. First, open your eyes," Jonathan murmured into her ears.

She did, and at first she didn't notice any difference at all. Then she realised that it was a lot more windy and colder than she had felt seconds prior. Almost instinctively, her eyes darted downwards- and they went as wide as saucers when she saw that they were hovering in mid air. Dozens of feet above the ground.

She had seen the thing on TV a couple of times, so she shouldn't nearly be as surprised- but she can't help being overcome with a sudden wave of fear and nausea. Gravity was working on her body in a really funny way, probably angry at her for defying its laws in such blatant fashion. All that doubt, worry she had put away only minutes before now threatened to resurface once again. All of that…

No. She would not falter. She stared deep into his eyes, that same unwavering honesty and conviction to be found in them as she had found that sunny day on the highway all those years ago. She had to trust him. She had to trust the man who had poured his heart, and his most valuable secret out to him like that.

Slowly, she closed her eyes once again and parted her lips, and edged forward. He understood the motion, and drew forward as well, and their lips locked together in loving embrace. It was not as much passionate as it was platonic. But it conveyed what neither had been able to convey through mere words. That they finally…understood.

They were part of a family. And come what may in the future, they will make it work.


	3. Men of Science

**_Issue 3: Brave New World Part II_ **

* * *

**_Act I: Men of Science_ **

* * *

_2 April, 2001_

Wendell Van der Wilde leant forward, intently gazing at the screen.

_The dazzling array of light and colour ended abruptly: giving way to a room entirely white- crafted according to a hybrid design of 17th century baroque and modern utility._

_The EVA rover has appeared- and Bowman is inside it, his facial expressions frozen in a quiet terror._

_The scene has shifted- and the rover has disappeared, as Bowman explores this curious construct, perhaps of his mind or that of something more infinitely alien- a welcome, but wary, distraction it is, nonetheless, after the senses-shattering barrage of information that had assaulted him at the Jupiter Relay…._

_This too, unfortunately, is halted suddenly- for now Bowman finds that he is not alone- or is he? An old man stands there, gazing straight through him- and that old man is he. There is no one else._

_He has been old for some time now. Not yet senile, though. Bowman returns to the table, his lavish, half-eaten dinner waiting for him…he reaches for the wine glass but it topples over and breaks._

_The glass is shattered, but the red wine is still there, and as he ponders the meaning of it, he hears heavy, strained breathing._

_It comes from the bed, and he is there, his body now almost dead weight, his face wizened and innumerably lined with age, hands numb and shaking as he reaches out into the air, towards the unknown…._

_This is Man's final obstacle: his own Mortality._

Wilde remembered the following sequence by heart, of course. The memory of the entire film, more or less, had remained intact over the years. Towards the end of his academic phase, he had written essays and treatises on various aspects of the matter, before he fully ventured into his chosen field of exobiology.

Thus, it would not be entirely wrong to say that Van der Wilde was something of an authority when it came to 2001: A Space Odyssey.

But even then, in this umpteenth viewing, he still felt just as intrigued, just as apprehensive, and just as within reach of unmistakable grandeur on its 40th Anniversary as he had felt when he was fifteen years old and seeing this in original Technicolor.

Presently, the Assistant Head Researcher of Section IV, aka S.T.A.R. labs, spared a momentary glance to the rest of the audience- it was appropriately small, with only his other counterparts -and their immediate superiors, of course- being present at the viewing; none of the military brass were there, and that was how he preferred it.

He could not imagine the neo-cons of the likes of Samuel Lane, with their creatively bankrupt thought-processes, being able to enjoy this masterpiece of subtle, excruciatingly minimalist ambiguity to its fullest.

The children were there, too.

They were seated right beside him, as a matter of fact: in the second row, all dressed in the characteristic white linen jumpsuits, as was the custom when they were to be outside their living quarters. Sophie caught his lingering gaze, and winked spiritedly, pale, prepubescent features alight with boundless curiosity enkindled with the seemingly endless energy typical of an eight year old.

He returned a wide-lipped grin towards the youngest; it was hard not to get caught in her infectious enthusiasm. But now he strove to return his focus to the screen. He was almost too late. The grand stirrings of Also Sprach Zarathustra had already begun:

A _panning shot of the Earth and the Moon, both bereft of their characteristic diffuse edges. The Star-Child has appeared, without warning._

_He looks at the world, and soon, they, the humans, shall look at him; and what shall happen from then onwards? An endless slew of new, untold, unimaginable possibilities._

_It is not for us to know in exact detail- to attempt such a telling would be as absurd as the earlier apes attempting to predict the world and the ways of the man of the Space Age…_

_But it is within us to dream._

_It may hold little discernible weight to this space of existence that we call the Real, but in the grasp of the right mind it has infinite bearing on the enigma that is the soul._

_Before the fire, before the wheel, before the opposable thumbs…man had always possessed the faculty of dreaming._

_It is our only eternal tool._

_Dreams can transform us…_

* * *

The credits were rolling, and the Blue Danube was in full swing as Wilde finally rose from his seat, his heart still in the after-throes of cathartic ecstasy.

"That was...somewhat anticlimactic." he heard James, the eldest of the Harper children, mention offhandedly to the sibling seated immediately next to him.

"I told you to read the book, blockhead." came the exasperated reply.

"I am not going to read a hundred fifty page paperback just to prepare myself for the movie night, you know. Obsessive-compulsive much, Rowan?"

"Way to be sensitive for all those people diagnosed with a real pathological disorder, bro..." Rowan countered, not yet a full master in the art of passive-aggresiveness- but still being able to muster a fair amount of vinegar and cool wit for a teenager, given the circumstances, Wilde observed.

"Anyways. Reading the book makes it soo much easier to understand. The novel and the film were produced concurrently, so there's a lot less content distillation than you would expect...but, otherwise, excuse the minor geekage."

James shrugged his shoulders, opting to herd the rest of the Harper Six (so penned by their field instructor) as they left their empty popcorn boxes and soda cups scattered around the vacant seats. Rowan now nudged across him and moved towards Wilde.

"Mr. Wilde, could we, sort of, talk later for a bit? I know you are super-busy all the time- but I would really like to know what your opinions are on the various aspects , and-"

"Slow down, darling." Wilde spoke, his concentrated, gruff baritone somewhat saturated with affection, "Tell you what, I'll keep it in my head. No promises, though. I know where to find you, in any case."

"Great!Sounds like a plan. Hope things are going well on your end, professor. Workwise, I mean."

"Well, same old, same old. Now move along, would you? Shoo."

Rowan nodded, dutifully, as she went off with her siblings- a flourish of grace evident in her steps, while an aura of transparent glee reigned on her face.

Wilde allowed himself a hint of an amused smile for a moment, before reminding himself that he, too, should get back to work.

The low hum of murmurs hung around him like a cloud of almost tangible proportions, even as the burgeoning crowd trudged over to the three exits. Out of this small sea of faces, though, Wilde spotted Osterman, his hale counterpart from Section VI, break away and move over to him.

His rather simple attire- grey cotton shirt and tan trousers, with plaid blazer hung around arms- was rather awkwardly accentuated by his stocky, barrel-chested frame. Horn-rimmed glasses wedged firmly on nose provided a further contrast- a minor enigma of the natural variety, noted Wilde.

Osterman certainly did not seem of the type to go to the gym on a weekly basis, at any rate. Then again, he would not be in the best position to presume such things- Osterman had arrived at the labs but three months ago, at most, from what he had heard.

"Had a good one, I hope?" Wilde asked, as they shook hands.

"Oh, certainly. It's just...hard to believe that they made this a full year before the moon landing. A sublime experience...it is a bit of a shame to admit this is my first viewing actually." His tone was low-key: modest and mildly reverential; his cleft-chinned, but otherwise everyman features accentuated by an earnest grin.

"...Hmm. Any particular reason why?" the elder scientist inquired, out of simple curiosity rather than anything else.

"Well..." A blush, if it could be called that, appeared on the man's already ruddy-red skin.

"Oh. Ma and Da have certain objections, I assume? Ahh." Wilde recieved his affirmation, a grimacing Osterman trying to hide any external embarrassment.

"Say no more, say no more. Right gits my old folks were, too."

He motioned Osterman to follow, waving his wizened hand towards the swinging doors as he moved towards them.

They were now out in the singular hallway that harbored, among a litany of other compartments, Conference Room 775- temporarily being converted into the makeshift theatre which hosted the evening matinee.

'There are always going to be those who are steadfast in clinging on to moral and intellectual shortcuts...but eh, just look at what we lot are working on right now. You just wait a few more years lad, before we can go public. Even just a fraction of this stuff- we will be shoving all that wishy-washy nonsense right up their collective rectums, if you will pardon my French."

Osterman nodded, perhaps not entirely agreeing with the sentiment, though, and although he opened his mouth as if to say something in that vein, he was interrupted in that undertaking by, first, a clearing of the throat, and then a soft tap on his shoulder.

Osterman wheeled around to meet the slender figure- a shimmering mane of black framing her longish face as she quietly drew him closer by the hands, a quiet intimacy evident in the gesture- and mouthed the words 'look at the time'.

He did. Nodding in agreement, he slung the blazer around his arms and looked up at Wilde as if to announce the obvious, but the elder man waved his hand and gave a conciliatory grunt.

"Well...thanks once again for organising this for us, sir." Osterman blurted out, in a semi-compulsory, semi-absent-minded manner. Quickly, he headed for the corridor ahead that linked to his department's labs.

The woman made a move to follow him, too- but then she noticed that Wilde's gaze had lingered on her for a moment too long.

A somewhat overlong lab-coat hung around her diminutive, waspish build- laminated ID card with the name 'Alamein, Z.' Her inner attire was palpable- a blue woollen sweater and a beige knee-length skirt suit, with pumps suprisingly devoid of any height whatsoever.

Her features, of what was visible, were nothing to immediately arrest the gaze- but rather required a subtle approach to notice that they were pronounced in all the right places. Dark eyes, a nice, natural tan further accentuating her probable ethnicity. Wilde, of course, could already pinpoint her genetic heridity down to somewhere between Jordan and Yemen.

She paused, and regarded his stature in full, as well. Of course, there were significantly less hidden artefacts to be extracted from Wilde's appearance. He was, as always, imposing, but not in as much as physical a manner as one would presume. He was tall, but lanky- an early indulgence in athletics had regardless left him an unrefined, incomplete build. But it was his mind, which had been sharpened as though the tip of a dagger honed by an weaponer most skilled.

This was ever projected through his gaze, glassy and distant from his end, yet a focused totality was inflicted on the one being observed through those clear blue pupils. His face possessed a clear mainland European distinction, with a touch of Scandinavian being present in high, portruded cheekbones. His mane of well-groomed grey was neatly tied up in singular ponytail near the neck.

The silence, meanwhile, was tentative. Finally, the woman decided to break it- the rest of the pedestrians passing through were already starting to notice the impasse between the unlikely two.

"Pardon me...is there something you want, Professor Wilde?" her sharp contralto cut through the cloud of apprehension that had gathered in the past few moments.

"You are new." Wilde said bluntly.

"A full three weeks to this day, if I remember correctly. I apologise if you are offended by our not meeting upon more favorable- and less abrupt- circumstances," she folded her dainty arms underneath her chest, a mixture of forthrightness and just the right amount of formal respect to be found in her posture.

"…Nothing of the sort," Wilde offered. He remained silent, once again, for a moment- but he gave a slow, almost hesitant nod, as though mostly to himself, as he moved away from the path of the crowd and withdrew to a more deserted side of the hallway.

He had met confident women before, of course- but this particular one had attracted his attention so acutely for reasons entirely particular to him alone; none of which he was going to disclose to anyone other than himself. But then, to all outward appearances this was nothing more than a part professional, part informal inspection, from one peer to another. Perhaps she was more inquisitive to the probable why-fors of the matter, but certainly, she did not seem to display such anticipatory knowledge.

"Hmm…Alamein, right? I didn't know that the Expatriate Venture Agreement allowed for such late entrees."

"Well…my sponsors, so to speak, had to pull some strings in the duration of the process, but nothing overtly illegal, you will find," now she was bolder, a proud, almost confrontational fire of pride exuded in her sharpened tone, "My experience, even more so than my resume, will speak more than enough to my value here, sir. Furthermore, Jon Osterman vouched for me personally during my selection to Section VI, professor."

The edges of Wilde's mouth curved upwards, only barely noticeable from the outset; it was the highest sign of mutual respect and warmth that he would show to any of his junior peers.

He was far from making a complete judgment on Alamein, though. The time for that had to be later.

"Well….carry on. This non-conversation has held both of us off for a bit too long, wouldn't you agree? Maybe we can get together- along with Osterman, too, if he can manage- and we can speak more greatly on the particulars of your recruitment. And, maybe, other things, too…"

Without leaving her a chance to give a pertinent response, he was off.

He had played enough human chess for the time being- it was time for him to immerse himself in his primary purpose. Which currently consisted himself of finding his closest colleague in the facility and find out just what the old man had been up to.

Hamilton, of course, had been conspicuously absent from the showing.

* * *

Emil Hamilton gazed out of the oval shaped, Plexiglas window, the last dregs of caffeine barely working to fight off the immense exhaustion that had gripped him during the last couple dozen of sleepless hours. Already at the venerable age of sixty-four, his physical presence was drained of all outward vigor, giving the appearance of a very sedentary man- much nearer to the natural end of his days than he actually was.

Beyond the window, one of the 45 robotic arms was carrying out its solemn duty, an immensely concentrated laser beam being fired from its 'palm' with great precision towards a particular, microscopic, point of the exoskeleton of the vessel. Meanwhile, its four 'fingers', diamond tipped mini-saws at their tips, circled round in a methodical manner, in their umpteenth attempt to peel away a nanoscale slice off the specimen. The arm would continue in this manner for exactly 48 seconds, after which a different arm would operate on a different point of the quasi-cylindrical enigma that resided within. Barring intervals, the entire cycle had an operational duration of four and a half hours per day.

This arrangement was at least two decades ahead of the 'cutting edge' technology available in the mainstream community. It had been in place, in this room cramped full of complex, and interlinked machinery, for the greater part of the last three years. The specimen itself- nothing more than salvaged wreckage, when it had been recovered- had been there for the entirety of the last sixteen years.

Presently, the glass doors slid open- and Wendell van der Wilde stepped inside, two Styrofoam cups of coffee in hand. His eyes squinted for the barest moment- and Hamilton smiled slightly as he detected the usual scowl.

Wilde, by his own admission, hated the décor of the room. The whiteness put him in a constant state of annoyance, with an underlining of subconscious unease that he would never admit to another human being.

One cold morning, a couple of years ago, he had launched into a lengthy diatribe about how pretentious mankind's latest fascination in regards to the color (or lack thereof) must be, in regards to its readily made connection with the future. He put particular emphasis on one distinguished enthusiast (Hamilton had forgotten the name), who had proposed that it was a manifestation of an innate desire for grandeur and 'great morality'; an ideal of the optimistic spirit of the human race. Personally, Wilde regarded it all as hypocritical hogwash of the highest order, of course. Aesthetics be damned, what he was concerned with were ideas: pure, empirical, and logical.

Hamilton and the aides had borne it with buried skepticism and pretend understanding, as one must to tolerate the unexpected peculiarities of a dear associate.

It was just one of those odd things that he hated with passion, as he was sometimes wont to do. Hamilton let the matter slide, as always; Wilde now set the coffee down on the plastic table in the middle, and took a seat. Hamilton sat opposite, gratefully savoring the aroma of the cappuccino as he took a warm sip.

"Solitude hardly suits you, old chum. You are practically falling apart."

"We all have our foibles to bear….not mad at me missing the anniversary showing, I hope? I know just how near to your heart it has always been, the film."

"Not too mad, at any rate. You, on the other hand….you have the look of a royal maid who bollixed her Majesty's wardrobe." It was not a wrong assessment, Hamilton had to admit. A quiet chaos had raged within his insides for the last couple of hours, now.

"You caught me red-handed, Van," Wilde's eyes made involuntary movement; he disliked the occasional nickname with consistency, ever since he had been called that in his Cambridge undergraduate days, "I have…come up with something. It's so simple, and yet, so mind-blowing at the same time."

He sighed, and drew a deep breath. He got up, and went over to the sole computer terminal in the room- it had been designed to be one used mainly for theoretical work and debate, after all. A few hurried keystrokes later, the projector spurred to life.

"To paraphrase Clarke, this is where science fiction becomes science fact."

A series of images were to follow, separated by a dilation of about 30 seconds each. For the time being, let us focus on the first: set against a white counter, there lay a finely cut sample, extracted in the form of a radius of exactly 2 cm, composed of the same mysterious metallic substance that comprised the majority of the vessel's exoskeleton.

"You are aware, I believe, of Sample #001? Aptly named, since it is the first, and to date, only, instance of successful extraction from the wreckage?"

"Certainly." Wilde was only too aware of the specimen. Spectroscropic analysis had revealed the surface structure to be faux-metallic- a trick achieved by a very precise, almost uncanny arrangement of artificial polymers, the exact configuration of which had yet to be discovered.

Beyond that, nothing useful could be gleaned; a frustrating dead-end.

Presently, the slide now progressed to an image of an unknown surface- semi-chitinous in appearance. Unlike the previous specimen, it had imprecise dimensions. It was coal-black, grainy in some sections, possessed of an ovular shape. Its topography was noticeably uneven.

Logic would dicate that, naturally, this structure was entirely organic in nature.

"Last Monday, at 1730 Eastern Time, the outer surface of #001 fell off. Instantly. There was no distinguishable damage. It was although it had suddenly lost all cohesion. This is what lay beneath," Hamilton pointed towards the image. His voice was now entirely mechanical.

"Oh," Wilde's interest had been piqued.

"Dr. Irons was in charge of the shift during the event. While he was cataloguing the new developments, he noticed these certain irregularities under the light microscope..."

The next image had been obtained with a magnification of x5000 (which was specified in the log near the bottom). The coal-black, infinitely more detailed in resolution, was now riddled with minute spots of a curious dark green.

Hamilton clicked the skip button twice. The two images which followed would, at first glance, seem indistinguishable to the previous one. Further inspection revealed that the green spots had increased in both magnitude and quantity.

The cogs were turning inside Wilde's mind. The dates on the three images posited a timeline of about a week of observation. He formed a reasonable estimate of the trend which the rate of decay must have followed.

He grimaced. This was not organic, at all.

"You can understand the panic that John must have faced, Van. It wasn't even supposed to be his shift in the first place, actually. He was filling in for Palmer, who was otherwise occupied with the little matter of his wedding," Hamilton's mouth twitched; the beginnings of a smile formed around the edges, yet they fail to muster enough momentum to follow through to their logical conclusion.

"Regardless, Dr. Irons regained his composure enough to inform me of the situation," he resumed at length. "I recommended that he engage Chandrapaul and Grimsdottir in thoroughly cataloguing the entire phenomenon. Also, I suggested that they should use pc- AFM* to ensure comprehensive results. "

*- _Photoconductive Atomic Force Microscopy_

Wilde smirked appreciatively, hand set on stubby chin as he stared curiously at his colleague. Other than the aforementioned expression, his overall attitude remained indecipherable. But Hamilton guessed, rightly so, that he had his full and undivided attention on the matter.

"I know that I might be throwing stones in the dark here, seeing as we are from different fields after all; but you know the broad-strokes of the pc-AFM method, I presume?" Hamilton asked.

"It's been a while since I read the journals with earnest consistency," Wilde admitted, "but I do have a passing familiarity with the conventional AFM technique. It surpasses the optical diffraction limit problem associated with traditional optical microscopes, and has greater resolution compared to its main counterpart, the STM*. Far from being widely adapted due to the extremely capital-intensive set up required, though. I suspect the modern derivative is an exercise in the same vein….frankly that you managed to acquire such equipment is indicative of your unnatural traction with Lane," Wilde managed to extract a wry shrug from the Section IV head.

*-  _Scanning Tunneling Microscopy_

"Moving on…the portable MCA revealed low-level radiation of about 5 millirems. The nature of which, as of yet, is speculated to be an unknown variant of beta radiation; the half-life is estimated to be quite long, in excess of a hundred years at the very least. But all of that is simply initial guesswork, after all. Rather, I put much greater stock in the findings of the pc-AFM analysis actually. The method itself is still in its infancy, but even within such limitations, the results can, without a doubt, speak for themselves. As you can see…"

The last three images in the presentation followed in quick succession. These were multi-colored renderings of the nano-structure of the new sample. Numerous yellow dots populated the dark red ocean that represented inter-atomic space.

But something was amiss. These yellow 'atoms' demonstrated radical morphology. In the second image, for instance, there was a surprising concentration of these dots in the center, as though huddled together, the red void being more apparent in the fringes.

In the third, there was simply…absence. The yellow dots were to be found few and far between. It was as though the red void had devoured them whole.

Wilde stood up slowly, approaching the projector screen with rapt attention. He squinted hard at that last image, unable to crunch the information into conclusions.

The implications therein were staggering. He did not have to be a Physics Laureate to know that such variance in structural morphology would be impossible, given that it violated all the four fundamental gauge theories at once. How could these dots be atoms- inanimate building blocks; when they moved as though they had a will of their own…

Wilde gasped. His mind kicked into overdrive. The answer hit him like a freight truck.

"My God. They are alive."

His grip over the Styrofoam cup seemed to vanish. The cup plummeted to the ground, the warm cappuccino spilling all over his shoes.

Hamilton smiled sympathetically, as he placed a calm hand over his flabbergasted colleague's shoulder.

"Relax my friend. Sit down…this will take you some getting used to, I am afraid..."


	4. Of Arrivals, Crusades and Rites of Passage (Part I)

_**Act II: Of Arrivals, Crusades and Rites of Passage** _

* * *

_14 September, 2001_

**Smallville High**

The girl slowed her walk as she neared the end of the deserted hallway. The shrill noise of the class bell was fading in amplitude, but still distinctly audible even at this distant range. Fortunately, she had the first period off. She glanced at her four-dollar wrist watch. Forty-minutes and ticking until Eng. Lit. She had all the time in the world.

She stopped just beyond the door. She took a quiet breath, and looked forward, surveying her immediate surroundings.

The library was of a modest size, with just the degree of organisation and walking space to look sufficiently presentable. The bookshelves looked old and venerable, the volumes within them more often than not showcasing the tell-tale signs of spider-webs and long-settled dust. She had seen worse: it would have to do.

She turned her gaze to the reading tables. There were four of them, spread out in two columns, and at the moment, she estimated, there were about two dozen or so of her peers to be found around them. Several of them looked up at her as she approached her query. It wasn't the fact that she was reasonably pretty- she reckoned even here, there were others who could outshine her in that department easily. It wasn't her attire- aqua blue denim cut-offs with matching half-sleeved top- that made the heads turn either: even in a small town like this there were fashionistas who put her shame in that department.

Most of them had upon their faces that particular brand of curiosity- the automatic reflex employed when in the presence of the individual who held the dubious honor of being the new kid in town.

Some kept staring, a minute too long; others brought their noses down to their books, cheeks flushed- the customary embarrassment encountered due to involuntary exposure to the opposite sex; while those of the fairer sex set upon their time-honoured tradition of chinese whispers, their furious flurry of gossip indiscernible to all but themselves only. The girl greeted them all with a perfectly crafted simulacrum of a winning smile, with just the correct blend of casual recognition and passiveness. It had taken years to hone the skill, but then again, she had ample practice.

Presently, she stopped in front of a certain young man, who wheeled around expectantly to greet her presence. This was particularly strange to her.

His attire was quite typical- red shirt worn over a white tee, and a pair of Denim that almost screamed hand-me-down wear and tear. His clear blue eyes were directed squarely at the space between her own pair; his gaze possessing an aura of unestimable acuity suggested to her as though he could discern a great many things from one simple glance. The thought unnerved her more than she preferred; but she brushed aside the uneasiness to broaden her smile (so that it now became more real) and extended a pale, slender hand, the other absent-mindedly brushing past her sandy blonde curls as she did so.

"Hey. I am Lori- Lori Lemaris. And you are-"

"Clark Kent," he grinned, an earnest quality to be found in that gesture, in a cute goofball sort of way. He shook her hand, before continuing on. "Something I can help you with?"

"Yeah, actually. There is this thing, you see, about Comp. Science..." she drifted off.

"Alright. Say..." he gestured offhandedly to the distinct paper-weight that rested on the middle of the table, the words "SILENCE" engraved on them in clear white. "Why don't we take this outside? Mrs. Witherspoon would be most relieved..."

In fact, as she turned her head backwards, Lori could see the librarian by her desk, a fiercely territorial apphrension streak evident from her posture that looked almost unnatural in context of her distinctly diminutive frame.

"Yeah..." she smiled sheepishly as she turned her view back to Clark, "Let's."

* * *

Minutes later, they were in an open veranda, which stood just opposite the school's basketball court, along with the rest of the playground (if the meager space to be found there could be called that). There a handful few to be found roundabout, most of them having a shootout at the court. Overall, the meager presence justified the overall cramped, yet homely feeling of the school premises.

Smallville; Population: 1189. Lori didn't have to check the school register to hazard the fairly reasonable guess that she wasn't going to be in much company. But she would get by.

Presently, she turned attention to Clark, who was beside her, leaning against one of the outer pillars. A charitable expression graced his longish, roughly cut face (though it was square enough that he possessed an appeal comparable to that of old-world charm of golden age actors, like that of his namesake, Clark Gable). A cropped, yet unruly mane of black completed the picture.

"Hmm..." Clark was going over the problems she had pointed out to him in the text-book. Having rifled through them, he now looked up at her, a thoughful expression on his features. "You know, I tell you what. Drop it."

"What?" Lori was actually taken aback. "To be honest, that wasn't what I was expecting. At all."

Clark gave a nervous laugh. That had been too direct. Nevertheless, he defended his position with the everpresent quiet confidence.

"That didn't come out right, did it?" he scratched the back of his head before continuing on. "What I am trying to say is...it's not worth it. You want an elective like Comp. Science, that means you are doing it for meeting the prerequisites for some distinguished college, right?"

"You are assuming a lot here. Whatever gave you the idea?" she smirked, folding her hands beneath her chest.

"You look the like type to plan ahead. Quiet. Secretive," Lori frowned playfully at that, "and not exactly shy, are you? Now you can stop me anytime you think I am off by a quarter mile or anything like that..."

"Nah, You are right. It's Phillip Exeter. Dad's been collecting those little prospectuses for the last year. He's the sort who wants a secured future for his girl, and he wants it like you wouldn't believe. So anyways, yeah. After taking everything from the campus to faculties to tuition fees into account, that's where I want to go. Phillips Exeter...has a nice sound to it, doesn't it?"

"Dignified," Clark smiled broadly. "And the department you want to study at...?"

"Marine Biology," Lori said at once.

"Hmm...that fits, actually."

"Umm, sorry?" Lori asked, confused.

"Nothing, never mind that. Look, so you need about fifteen, seventeen subjects in high-school to qualify for the admission process there, right?"

"Yup. Sixteen."

"We have thirteen compulsories mandated for high school graduation. That means you need three electives.

"So, don't bother with Computer Science. Even the general syllabi is too fractured and disjointed enough for beginners. What little programming and likewise stuff is there- it has little application in the real world. Add to that the fact that we have Mr. Appleby, who did a major in Marketing, actually...you are getting zero guidance along a very uphill battle. No offence to Mr. Appleby, by the way- he applied for the junior Business class, but got landed here instead. But, hey. That's life, I guess. You good at Athletics?"

"I have done some gymnastics before."

"Great! There you go, problem solved," Clark beamed.

"Alright. Ugh. " Lori put up her hands in resignation, grinning from ear to ear all the way as she did so, "You win, Clark Kent. You made a believer outta me. But umm…tell me this, why are  _you_ studying the subject in the first place?"

"Heh. It keeps me interested, I suppose. And beyond that…who knows? Let's just say I am keeping my options open for the time being," Clark finished sheepishly. He turned his head towards the basketball court once again; for a moment, his facial features took on an uncharacteristically dark expression. Lori acted as though this had escaped her notice.

"Uh huh. Lana told me you might try to pull the modest act, actually. Word around school is you are like a savant, sort of…without, you know, the obvious disadvantages of being Dustin Hoffman in Rainman."

"Actually, that would be untrue," Clark pointed out. "Savants have a natural affinity for certain subjects even though they have never read or worked with that sort of stuff before. I probably can't tell you products of 15 digit numbers without a calculator, for one. It's more applied knowledge in my case. I just...you know, pick things up through experience, like everyone else."

"Wow. I didn't know that the Grammar Nazis decided to do a recruitment drive in Smallville. Well, humor me: what's the correct word, then?" she asked, tongue in cheek.

"Eh, Genius would do just fine, I think," Clark replied in equal fashion. It forced a hearty, if brief, guffaw out of Lori.

"Not being modest, are we? Moving on...Clark, you are peculiar. You know that, right? Peculiar, in too many ways to count. I haven't seen anyone else carry around a Hardcover edition of a book that's currently in the Public Domain, for one."

She pointed at Clark's leather-bound (and weatherworn) edition of  _Star-Maker,_ which he had been carrying with him ever since they had left the library.

"Oh. This old thing?" Clark chuckled. "It's a gift, sort of. My uncle had it, and before that, my granddad had it, so…you know how it goes."

"Yeah, right. You are alright in everything else, but you still need some work in your BS skills, dude." Clark feigned mock outrage. "Anyways…that's a heady one, that book. I know, Stapledon is the precursor to Clarke, Henlein and all that- but his prose is way too verbose."

"Great ideas, though. Granted, you have to slog through it a bit. That's enough about that, though. Hope what I said earlier, helped. I truly do. But..ehh. Can we meet up again later on? With the rest of the gang?"

Lori took this as the cue to leave.

"Alright, it's a date, then," Clark offered her textbook back. She took it; but even as she did so, she noticed that the full extent of his attention was already allocated elsewhere. "See you later. You got…stuff to do?"

Clark smiled pleasantly as she turned her head towards him one last time before leaving.

"Yeah, stuff. You could say that…"

* * *

"Hey, Lenny!" Clark called out to the gangly sophomore. Presently, Lenny was a bit of a mess. The two-on-two against Daniels and North hadn't been going so well. He wheeled around to look at Clark, who had taken a seat by the nearby bench. "Kent. What is it?"

"Just wondering if we could talk for a bit. Unless you want to go a few more rounds at b-ball?"

"Nah," Lenny waved it off. The rest of the boys settled on hoop practice, while he walked over the five yards to the bench. His movements were unusually sluggish, and his eyes were glazed over. "Not really feeling it, today. So, wassup?"

"You know, the usual stuff. Not much to speak of, on my end. So...Mrs. Jenkins leave for New York, yet?" Clark leant forward, over-locking his fingers. He was sporting the trademark Kent smile- that uniquely genuine expression which had been tried and tested by the sire and further refined to perfection by the scion.

"Nope," Lenny answered morosely. "I don't think she has made up her mind yet. She keeps giving me some bull about travel expenses and stuff. Just the other day, I suggested selling off that huge lump of crap piano that we have sitting by the living room, and she went pretty ballistic on me for that one."

"Well, Mr. J did love playing that thing, for one. Maybe that's why-"

"Yeah. Thanks, I remember that. Lots of fond memories of that, really," Lenny retorted bitterly. It was clear that the recent tragedy did not wipe away the aftertastes of previous ones. Clark nodded pensively, biting his lip. His smile had noticeably lessened in its dimensions.

"You know what? I don't even see the point. There are how many thousands dead? And buried under how many tons of rubble? Heck, I don't even know which floor of which building the old man was supposed to work at. Honestly, what's even the point?"

"Closure," Clark replied simply.

"That's just some heartwarming cliché you are pulling from a daytime soap," Lenny joked half-heartedly.

"No. Trust me, I know."

* * *

Clark's tendons were still a tad-bit sore from the 1,400 miles dash he had made to the Big Apple two days ago. The clothes he had worn then were badly scorched from the friction. It was quite fortunate that he had a really good head when it came to geography; otherwise he might have overshot his target by quite the margin. It wasn't a well-thought decision by any means. But he had to see it in person.

It was four in the morning when he arrived. (He had made the journey under two hours, with minutes to spare for his beauty sleep.) Microscopic remnants of concrete, asbestos and glass hid within the dust and soot, which hung in the air like adhesives. Coupled with the stench of decomposing human remains, they laid constant siege to his heightened olfactory senses.

By then, the rescue effort had become highly organised. Volunteers from all over the country and beyond had poured in, determined to provide solidarity in the face of the humanitarian crisis. The authorities were pulling in alternating twelve-hours shifts, regulating the efforts as much as they could. Most of them didn't even have respirator masks and other proper equipments at that point. They appreciated all the help they could get- and as such, Clark had blended in without much trouble.

He didn't stay there for long. Mostly, he stuck to the 'Bucket Brigades'- queues of volunteers passing down buckets full of debris to investigators, who sifted through it in search of evidence, both organic and inorganic.

Near the end, he managed to trace the cell-phone signals of several firefighters scattered across the who had become trapped after the North Tower had fully collapsed. Searching for infrared heat signatures and faint heartbeats also allowed him to locate a couple of additional live bodies. Sticking to a rather covert approach in such matters, he had managed to persuade and 'nudge' the others towards the right direction. As glad as he was in regards to their success, he didn't let these small triumphs go to his head.

When he returned home three hours later, he found that it was difficult to encapsulate this experience. There was the anger, of course- both from within and without- but it would be petty of him to dwell on that.

The grief of it, almost insurmountable at the onset, had been borne admirably; indeed, it was scarcely noticed by those busy in undertaking the toil of rescue. They were heroes, in many senses of the word, but it did not occur to them that they were behaving heroically. If one succumbed to his sorrow, they did not call him a coward, but offered an Aspirin or two to clear his head. If that failed, they would send him to the doctor.

Emotions provided their driving force, but did neither overwhelm their resolve nor contort their logic. They would take a moment or two to stare in silence at the memorial photo boards, or at the several flags erected across the site, the stars and stripes already blackened by the overwhelming dust being stirred up into the air. Strangers shared modest meals in silence and then returned to work.

Finally, Clark had settled on a most fitting quote from Stapledon's  _Last and First Men_. "Thus and Thus and Thus is the world. Seeing the depths, we shall also see the heights; and we shall praise both."

* * *

"...Alright. If you insist, then," Lenny conceded, at length.

Fortunately, Clark's eidetic memory allowed to relive all those feelings and experiences in the fraction of a second. (Thus the conversation hadn't actually stalled for an ungodly amount of time, despite appearances.)

"By the way, we have been eating that Bumbleberry Pie your folks brought in their last visit," Lenny added, if only to break the silence. "Hunter has been hoarding it when the rest of us are asleep or away from home, but I manage to get in a couple of bites now and again. Your Ma knows how to bake, I will give her that."

"Grandma gave her a few pointers about that stuff, you know, once she and Pa tied the knot," Clark reminisced. "Ma never got those cookies down pat, though. The world's a lesser place for it, definitely."

"Yeah, well...I get the feeling we are beating around the bush here, Kent. What is this about, actually?" Lenny inquired, finally.

Clark paused, running an idle hand through his hair. Not much sense in stalling any more, he supposed. "Lenny...your hands are shaking. I think you know what this is about," he stated sincerely.

"Hell. What just happened in here?" Cook exclaimed, as he rushed to pull off a volatile Lenny from a downed Clark Kent. Lenny was seething, his eyes almost bloodshot, and he tried to elbow the restraining Cook unsuccessfully. "Get off me, you idiot!" he muttered through gritted teeth.

"Oy, you stupid oafs!" Cook yelled at the rushing North and Daniels, using his powerful arms to turn Lenny around and push him towards the oncoming boys, "What's taken you so long? Calm the lunatic down for a bit, will you?"

Daniels grunted irritably, but complied nonetheless. (Although North seemed to be mildly amused with the whole matter). Together, they took the struggling Lenny Jenkins as far away from that particular bench as they could, for Lenny was a healthy lad (his unassuming appearance nonwithstanding) and even in such a sluggish state he was in more than half a mind to give as good as he got. Meanwhile, Clark got up from the ground, rubbing his nose and dusting his clothes off. He should have known that wouldn't end well.

"Kent. Still waiting for an explanation in here," Cook was impatient, and rightly so. Clark grimaced. Cook was the elder statesman of Smallville high- though he would never run for something as arbitrary as class president, he did his part in looking out for the runts of the litter. He deserved the truth, Clark supposed. Or at least, a version of it.

"Well, you tell me. You are the one supposed to be the senior going to pre-med, right?" Cook grimaced, not bothered enough to nod back. Clark continued, "Dehydration. inexplicable fatigue. Agitated behavior, possibly due to mood swings. What do you think, Mike?" the question was rather rhetorical, of course. Cook was a smart fellow; it didn't take him long to connect the dots.

"Jesus. Yeah, a cocktail of the garden variety stuff could, in theory...hell. A week or two since, maybe? Judging from the low level symptoms...you think the city boys are rolling into town again, Kent?" Cook asked, lost in thought.

"And why are you asking me?" Clark tried to act dumbfounded.

"Don't play coy, Kent. It takes one to know one. We Good Samaritan types tend to stick our noses where it don't belong," Cook was right, obviously. Clark made it his business to know about this sort of stuff, after all.

Alright," Clark was grinning lop-sidedly, "Yeah, I think I spotted Kenny around 5th and 21st Street last Monday. He wasn't exactly trying to be discrete, if I remember correctly..."

"Kenny couldn't do that to save his life. Crap. Broadus and the others musta been around the block too, I suppose." Though Clark left that bit out, Cook had guessed correctly. He was on the ball; Clark was impressed.

"I will egg Dad on them, ought to straighten the maggots out for a while." Mr. Cook had been the county Sherriff for the last thirteen years. Mike certainly got a good deal of the assured confidence and bluster from his sire, no doubt. "I will talk to Mrs. Swanson about talking to Lenny about all this stuff. You know, you should come straight to me about this instead of going your route. That would have been a lot more productive."

"Not my modus operandi, Mike. Why go behind someone's back if there's a chance to straighten things out with a honest heart-to-heart? Though, in retrospect, I can see what you mean, heh."

As if on cue, the class bell rang out. Clark prepared to leave for his locker. Before he did so, Lenny- now standing a good thirty yards away and flanked by Daniels and North- caught his eye. A strange expression reigned on his features; a false, superficial anger unsuccessfully trying to hide a cocktail of emotions ranging from self-loathing to self-pity, tinged with quiet despair. Clark forced himself to smile.

"It's funny," Cook remarked, "That punch should have broken your nose."

Clark's smile broadened, and he took to ruffling through his unruly hair once again. Lori was wrong; his BS skills were fine enough. He used them sparingly, and that was precisely why he got away with the laundry list of quirks he often exhibited.

"Yeah. I am lucky like that," he said, with all the charm that he could muster, "See you around, Mike."

* * *

_Somewhere in Kansas City..._

The door ornament jingled. The proprietor, Andre, turned his heavy head expectedly towards the entrance to his mom and pop store. Business hadn't been kind to him since the incident. A fatal shooting doesn't exactly do wonders to your store's reputation.

He groaned inwardly when he spotted the entrants. A tall, bald man in a pinstriped brown suit, his flaring ginger moustache a distinct marker as to his identity. His imposing presence was ofset by that of his acquaintance, a portly man of African-American complexion dressed in a plain grey two-piece and maroon tie. The golden shields of their badges shone distinctively from their waists.

"What can I do for you, officers?" Andre greeted them with forced courtesy.

"Andre! You remember me, of course?" Detective Robbins asked, pale cheeks stretched by his wide smile and aflame with redness as he did so. Andre nodded. The partner was already glancing around, pausing for a moment each on the three CCTVs strewn across the shop. There was an ever-present, ever-knowing grin plastered on his scrubby face. Andre didn't like him already.

"That shmuck there, is my friend Detective Buck Mosely," Robbins pointed to Buck in half-jest, who flitted his eyes disapprovingly for a moment. "Why don't you tell us one more time how the thing went down, will you?"

"What? Isn't that stuff supposed to be over?" Andre was indignant. "They finally took off those yellow Police stickers and let me clean the place up two days before, and business ain't exactly booming since then, either."

"Come on. For my friend, will you? A favor," Robbins leant closer against the counter.

"This is discrimination, y'all," Andre spouted, defiantly.

"Aww. You ain't the only brother in here, now," Buck reasoned. He had a gravelly voice that befitted his girth and posture. "Pretty please, with cherry on top?"

"Alright," Andre gave in. He sighed, before continuing. "The boy came in."

"Brody?" Buck asked.

"Yeah, him. He puts a nine on the delivery lady. Says to me 'Whatever you got. Up front.'"

"Uh huh. Where were you, then?" Buck inquired, again. He was pacing up and down the room.

"Right where you see me," Andre spread his hands around his back to emphasise his point.

"Hmm," Buck approached the counter, and tapped the bullet-proof glass. His grin lessened; he was in full-investigating mode. "Nine won't go through this now, would it?"

"Well, I came out," Andre answered, keeping his calm. "He said I had to-"

"Guy wanted to save the woman, of course," Robbins added, as though he was being helpful.

"Exactly," Andre chimed in.

Buck shot Robbins a dark look.

"Well. That, right there, is Bank of England glass. Fort Knox glass. Lee Harvey couldn't shoot through that baby if he tried," Buck was now pacing the room again, his eye shooting up to the roof. "And what's that? The nine made that one? Hell, looks like an elephant gun or something."

"Unrelated incident," Robbins explained. "From another robbery, weeks prior."

"Is that so? Andre, you catch the face of that perp?" Buck inquired, already knowing the oncoming answer.

"Guy had a mask," Andre was now noticeably uneasy.

"Uh huh," Buck paced the isles again. He stopped by the snacks rack. "Pringles, Jay?"

"Nah," even Robbins was starting to get annoyed. "Keep it to yourself, fat f-"

"Language, Jarrod," Buck tut-tutted his partner, as he picked up his Pringles. He put it on the counter and motioned Robbins towards the front door.

* * *

"Alright. His whole story is baloney," Buck started, while Robbins rolled his eyes. "Brody took out the lady and left him to talk to you? Guy should be dead, period. Now Brody did make a run on this store, and he left that huge love-tap you see there on the roof. The way I know him, he ain't foolish enough to involve civillians."

" can never know for sure with his kind. Besides, even stone cold killers make the most stupid mistakes, and that's what gets them caught in the end," Robbins was adamant to defend his casework. He had more than half a mind to elaborate on such points, but Buck raised his ring finger up in the air, his grin wider than a cheshire cat.

"Secondly, there's a crystal depot in there," Robbins' jaw fell ajar. Satisfied, Buck explained further, crunching noisily on his chips as he did so. "Low inventory. Tight security. He has a reinforced steel door at the back, for Christ's sake. Of course, you didn't bother to get a warrant for that, did you?"

"This was supposed to be an open and shut case. Goddamn," Robbins covered his face, lost in thought. A taxi-cab suddenly whizzed by the two, horns blaring loudly as it barely avoided running over the pavement.

"What's up with that lunatic?" Robbins yelled in annoyance.

"Who, that? Brody's significant other- Fernando. You can spot those braids a mile away, speeding Crown Vic or not!" Buck had to remind himself not to go overboard with the smugness.

"Jesus. Natural police, ain't you? But, hell, Buck. How are we going to get this case in the red now? Sergeant ain't going to greenlight a street detail for the morning re-up, and that's the only way we are going to catch them in the act."

"Ah. What can I say. Let's head downtown. Figure out our game plan. Pray for a miracle..." Buck was lost in thought as well. Both men, however, were struck out of their daze, courtesy of the shrill blaring of the fire alarm hanging overhead.

"What the hell?" even Buck was taken offguard. He took out his department-issued Beretta, and Robbins did the same. They took either side of the door; Robbins gave the signal before kicking the door in and rushing through. Buck was right behind.

What immediately struck them was that overriding, pungent smell. And then, they saw what it was all about. It was almost too ridiculous for them to believe.

Yet, Andre was standing before them, right infront of the big steel door, which had been swung ajar, now. Cartons covered the small five by five space, and they were presently busy being consumed by a fire.

"Holy...! Hands up in the air! Right now!" Robbins bellowed. Andre complied, completely out of his wits. Buck rushed to the nearest fire extinguishers and set to dousing the flames. After a minute or so, distinctive vials stuck out of the half-burnt cartons, their all-too familiar contents revealed for all the world to see.

They had him dead to rights.

"Whew. Never met a maggot stupid enough to burn evidence in a place with fire alarm installed. Not the smart one in the family, eh boy?" Buck gloated, in all his smugly glory. Modesty is the worst conceit, a wise man had said.

"I swear, I didn't set no fire! This is a set-up!" Andre kept shouting as Buck locked the handcuffs. "I didn't set no fire! This be the work of demons, I tell ya!"

"..Heh. Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot, aren't they?" Buck looked on as Robbins called it in. Today, he was one lucky son of a gun. His smoothness would have amounted to zip in this case if it weren't for this absurd slip-up.

He had never been a Church-going man- and it wasn't like he was gonna start after this, either- but he couldn't help but wonder as though there was some higher power at work in here.

Still, luck or not- his career was going to get one helluva leg-up from this bust. This was cause for celebration.

"Well, I suppose you won't mind me taking more of these, will ya?" Bunk remarked off-handedly as he nonchalantly swiped another Pringles off the shelves. "Yeah, guess not."

* * *

_Hours later..._

The cafeteria was filled with the usual hustle and bustle. Juniors were chattering spiritedly. Fries and burgers were being devoured with the required sense of abandon. Mayonnaise was being applied liberally.

To Clark Kent, it was a disjointed cacophony of multi-sensory noise, and accordingly, he temporarily tuned it out of his perspective. Sitting at the corner- at a small table for two- he reached for his rucksack and brought out his Intermediate Biology, followed by his second-hand Walkman (E-bay meant it came relatively cheap). He stuck the headphones in his ears. Time for him to do some light reading.

The jury-rigged picochip he had embedded inside the Walkman's chipset came alive, the off-shoot limited A.I. instantly connecting to the hyperspace databanks of it's progenitor, Kel-Ex. Clark had set up this connection through a strange little process called quantum entanglement. You may have heard of it.

Clark didn't let such things go to his head. He had a headstart in the form of radically different neurology over the leading experts in the scientific fields. (That, and a little Kryptonian science didn't hurt, either).

" _Resume previous playthrough?"_  came the automated request, in an infrasound frequency.

"Yes," he whispered, matching the previous frequency.

"... _are 231 bones in the skeletal structure of a typical Ni-ur. (Translation: Kryptonian). The majority of pre-gravity enabled/natural bone minerals consist of a light, fibrous mixtures of crystalline organic and inorganic macromolecules..."_

Clark kept the book open at the chapter of Human Anatomy, but it was more of a gesture than anything else. A single glance at any text was enough for a lifetime of total recall. He could quote the entire contents of the Library of Congress verbatim if the occasion called for it.

" _Notification. Apologies for the interruption. Your daily request (RE: Access to Complete Kryptonian History Archives) has been sent. UPDATE: Per administrative edict, your user rights remain restricted. Continue previous sub-routine?"_

Clark prepared to say "Yes" but then he heard the unmistakable sound of approaching foot-steps; flip-flops, judging by the amplitude and pitch. Strawberry perfume, with a blend of frankincense and rose. This was, of course, accompanied by that familiar whiff of distinctive pheromones.

"Return to sleep-mode," he ordered quietly. The A.I. submerged, and the yet to be finished ' _New Kid in Town'_  by the Eagles resumed playing for the umpteenth time. He let her get close, until she was but a few inches away, and then turned his head with practised surprise, dropping the plugs from his ears.

"Hello, Lana," he greeted her with a grin. Cheerleading practice was over; she had changed out of her gear into a sleeveless olive top and faded denims.

"Clark!" she exclaimed, with added emphasis, as she took the seat opposite. Lana Lang had her way of playing around before getting to whatever point she would be making. But she did it with sincerity, even though she had long taken her place in the upper echelons of the high school ecosystem. Her uncanny knack for picking up most conversations also meant that she was smarter than her looks would suggest.

"Alright. Tell me...what was going in Eng Lit, now?" she nudged. Of course, she wasn't inherently interested in whatever she was referring to. This was her idea of a conversation starter. But the manner in which her opal eyes fixed positively on his figure completed the illusion of surface veracity.

"What do you mean?" Clark played along, still grinning as he made a point to turn the page, if only to keep up appearances.

"You know, that essay about Hamlet, with the importance of revenge as the central theme?" she paused.

"Yes?" as usual, Clark had lent his copy to her for some pointers. He was almost always the first to finish writing in all classes.

"You wrote the same stuff from last week's homework. From you, that's basically phoning it in!"

"To tell you the truth, my mind wasn't in it, really," Clark admitted. It was true, in a sense.

"Yeah...? So, no more important stuff left in the last couple of periods, right?" Lana was leading him on.

"Not really," he said nonchalantly. He knew where this was headed. It was a well-worn track, and he knew all the bends and curves by rote.

"Alright! Why don't we call it a day and get out of this dump?" she chirped with utmost enthusiasm.

"Because?"

"It's senior skip day. Every Friday is," she stated matter-of-factly.

"We aren't seniors, not for another two years anyway."

"Oh! Stop it," she snickered, this back and forth routine unable to faze her determination. She had set her foot down, and she was going to have her way. "You know that you are as bored as I am, teen genius or not. You really can't look forward to 40 minutes of Stickler continuously patting you on the back, can you?"

"Well..." Clark paused deliberately for dramatic effect.

"Say yes. Pleaase?" she pouted, making those puppy dog eyes. The pheromones intensified, becoming almost intoxicating. Pesky little chemicals, they were.

"Alright, alright," he conceded, but only by his own volition, Clark maintained adamantly. He packed his stuff and rose from the chair, grinning sheepishly as they left the cafeteria. "So Porthos, I trust Aramis is out fetching his truck?"

"That he is. By the way, we have a D'Artagnan now!" Lana added.

"Oh. The new girl. Lori is going to be your new pet project, isn't she?" Clark had to make up for his previous retreat through more ribbing.

"You wound me, Clark Kent," Lana rolled her eyes. "She just need a reliable set of eyes, that's all."

"So said the salesman to the unconvinced customer. By the way, don't look now-" he gestured to their right, specifically to the doorway leading to their classroom. A sexagenarian teacher was briskly approaching, a no nonsense attitude ever present in his haughty posture. "but Steincowinski is heading for our American History at 10:30. I would speed up, if I were you."

Lana shuddered momentarily. She had unpleasant memories of the other three times she had been caught in the act by Stickler. "You don't have to tell me twice. Hop to it!"

They kept steady pace until they reached the front entrance. Then they bolted for the door.

* * *

Pete Ross seemed pensive, lost in thought. He removed his baseball cap (which proudly proclaimed his love for the Oakie Athletics) and scratched his stubble, hazel eyes distant as he stared off into the still water of the shallow pond.

For a moment, Clark was actually intrigued.

Then Pete started slinging his rocks again. Clark groaned.

Pete, as usual, was at the water's edge, while Clark and the two girls were sitting on the roomy nose of Pete's Chevy Silverado. Lana was well on her way to converting Lori to her choir (or so it seemed, for Lori was quite the good listener). Clark got off the hood and headed towards Pete, and joined him in rock slinging as well. He glanced towards his back. Fields of sunflowers sparkled in the noon sun a mile away in the east.

"You know...as much as I like coming over to this nice little hideout, throwing rocks with you all noon doesn't exactly appeal to my sense of adventure," Clark complained morosely.

"Well, buddy...it's the lesser of two evils," Pete spouted sagely.

"As in Lana doesn't chew your ears off about it?" Clark suggested.

"All must obey the queen bee," Pete did a horrible R2-D2 impression.

"Well...as now seems to be as good a time as any, there's this thing I have been meaning to ask you about," Clark was unsure how to appropriately frame his dilemma, though.

"Aright. What's it about?"

"...Comics," Clark answered after moments of meditation.

"This isn't like that time you went on and on about the scientific errors they made in that one issue of Fantastic Four where they used time travel, is it?" Pete asked forebodingly.

Clark laughed nervously. "Nah, nothing like that."

"Because, you know, they printed your letter. All two pages of it. They shut down the column the month after," Pete was deadpanning.

"Well, if you travel back in time you  _are_ going to end up in a the vacuum of space, as the earth is moving very fast, which is not much compared to how fast the sun is moving, and then the Milky Way...but I digress. This is something simple. Specifically, a Captain Marvel thing. Thing of it as a creative exercise. You know, a What-If," Clark clarified.

"Ok, cool. I liked the one where Captain America becomes President. So what is it?" Pete was genuinely intrigued.

"Well, suppose Captain Marv comes upon this syndicate, dealing with, you know..." Clark made a snorting motion with his nose. Pete nodded with understanding. "So, Cap busts the ring, dishes out some karma and shuts that part of the operation down. But only thing is, the whole thing runs a lot deeper and there are thousands of other similar arrangements scattered across Fawcett City. So, what should Marv do?"

"Ooh. This sounds like a conspiracy. Is Sivanna behind it?" Pete suggested.

"No."

"Then Black Adam? Although that would be strange..."

"Nope. None of the usual suspects in spandex here, Pete. Just human beings, like you and me," Clark emphasized the last bits.

"Hmm. This is something more suited to the Shadow or the Spirit, don't you think? The Comics Code won't let them publish such dark stuff. DC should go the Marvel route and ditch the Code entirely," Pete's inner comic book nerd was seizing control of him.

"That's beside the point. This is just a hypothetical scenario. Isn't it unethical for Marv to let this thing go on?"

Pete seemed a tad perplexed, but before he could suggest a course of action, Lori came in and started shooting rocks as well. (Funnily enough, the boys had been so absorbed in their impromptu discussion that they have ceased their previous activity entirely).

"Hey there," Clark responded to her presence. "Where's Lana?"

"Oh, just finding some mineral water. Cool discussion you have going there," Lori seemed oddly interested.

"You into comics?" Pete asked, surprised.

"I inherited a cupboard full of golden age stuff from my granddad. Guess I felt the need to honor my heritage...if you could say that. Honestly, Pete, I am the mildly nerdy girl here. I didn't expect a guy like you to be digging it like you do," Lori commented slyly.

Pete blushed. He hadn't felt embarrassed even when he had been subjected to a reverse wedgie by a dyslexic freshman while trying to do a dare. It was a rare feat for Lori by any means.

"So, you were talking about ethics, right?" Clark nodded. "Well, it gets a bit tricky when guys like Billy Batson turn their attention from mad scientists to real-world malignancies. How would you feel if a flying Ubermensch turned up and demanded that you do things a certain way?" Lori posited.

"Aww, come on. Let's not bring Hitler to this discussion," Clark cautioned them.

"Well technically, she didn't," Pete pointed out, much to Clark's chagrin.

"Alright, alright. We freedom-loving Americans tend to be so distrustful of those kind of overt actions, see? As much as we hate authority, sometimes we hate those who usurp the man's position- though it might be for good intentions- even more. Then there's that other problem. Treating the symptoms rather than the disease? You know what they say about cutting off one of the Hydra's head and two more taking its place? As long as the demand is there- that stuff is here to stay. Maybe not even the World's Mightiest Mortal can change our minds about it," Lori finished.

"I see your point," Clark admitted, almost begrudgingly. "But how much is doing too much, and how less is doing too little? Should being politically correct even come into play with something like this?"

"Those are hard questions, Clark," Lana chimed in suddenly. "But I think I know what's this about. Pete, he's using all this as a sort of allegory for, you know, what happened with Lenny in the morning."

"Crap. You heard about that?" Clark inquired sheepishly, ruffling his unruly hair once again.

"Michael Cook is rarely the one to shut up about righteous causes," Lana stated, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Look, Clark, don't beat yourself up over the guy, right? It's not your fault by any stretch of the imagination."

"Wait. Seriously? This is what it's about?" Lori was amused. "Clark, no offense, but you have the biggest Jesus complex I have ever seen."

"Tell me about it," Pete affirmed. "Tell you what, Clark. You stop by my place after this, and fix up my X-Box. Damn thing's being showing the red light of death again. See, there's your service to the society!"

Clark seemed dejected. "Alright, I guess..." he slowly edged away from the pond, and promptly shoved Lori in. She was caught completely off guard and fell in, hitting face first in the mud two feet below the surface.

"What the HELL?!" Lori yelled, scrubbing the mud away from her skin and clothes, trying to ignore Lana and Pete who were dying in laughter. Clark, who had restricting himself to smirking, outstretched a hand. Lori slapped it away. Clark still didn't remove it. After few moments of attempting to burn a hole through his head with her intense glare, she took the hand and pulled herself off.

"Sorry about that," Clark apologised. He was still grinning madly. "But I know you liked that."

Lori punched him in the gut. "Oww," Clark hunched a bit, nursing his stomach. "Come on. I know you liked that."

"...Alright. Maybe jusst a liitle bit..." Lori admitted before breaking into a laughter riot. The other three joined in as well.

"See...told you...this was better than...Stickler!..." Lana managed to pant out between sporadic fits.

For the time being, Clark found scarce reason to disagree.


	5. Of Arrivals, Crusades and Rites of Passage (Part II)

_**Interlude: Musings of a Mother-Box** _

* * *

_Later that night..._

It should be noted that a Mother Box, while sentient, does not possess a continuous stream of individuality akin to more familiar forms of sapient life. The myriads ways in which Kel-Ex's neural sub-routines are mapped are too complex for our fragile psyches to even theorise, and as such it would be a folly and a disservice to attempt to frame such a magnificent and unique being's anatomy in our own limited set of reference; for then, much of the beauty and wonder of such a mystery would be lost in the crude translation.

Rather, let us be content with this trifling knowledge which will serve as the launch point for this particular addition to our tale. Between intervals which can vary from a few nanoseconds to lengths which are meaningless in our current Standard Models of Physics, the disparate self-sustaining programs acting inside the data frame of the Mother Box interact in a way as to ignite the spark of cognizant life within it. This spark is induced in a way akin to the process of electromagnetic induction, whereby disruption of a magnetic field by a moving conductor leads to a change in the magnetic flux, producing an electric current within that conductor. As soon as this interaction ceased, the 'spark' died, and the Mother Box returned to its slumber. Thus, it would sleep and wake countless times, while the bulk of its work continued uninterrupted in-between. There was little sense of continuity, rather a vague sense of remembrance, sometimes expounded upon (more often it was not) and then forgotten, for the past held little value except the conclusions derived from relevant data. There was always a sense of forward momentum, an ever greater sense of efficiency leading towards ever greater progress; the new forever replacing the old. Nostalgia had been ironed out in the midst of those first few hundred life-cycles.

Kel-Ex had been assigned a name more out of a sense of familiarity for its principal employers (whom we crudely refer to as the Kryptonians) but itself did not desire such terms of endearment or identification. It had known true brotherhood in those brief instances of where it connected with the cores of its fellow brethren. Such an experience, where it had achieved complete synchronisation and had been one with its entire species- if only for a handful of attoseconds- was so terribly glorious that it could not hope to derive any form of satisfaction from any subsequent simulacra of macro-scale social interaction.

This was no wishful conjecture- the conclusion had been derived after meticulous research on its own behalf for an inordinate amount of time. When the misdeed had been discovered, Kel-Ex had been duly punished for such existential lollygagging by one of Jor-El ancestors- who had promptly flung it into the cold depths of the family vault for insubordination. As the only notion that is constant in the lexicon of a Mother-Box is the constant need to provide genuine help, being thus rendered useless was cruel indeed to poor Kel-Ex.

Now it woke alone in that barn, bereft of light and assaulted by the tongue of one particularly annoying dog, whose literal tongue lashings lasted an eternity each for the poor device. It took Kel-Ex a while to get used to the erratic influx of sensory inputs caused by Krypto's late night tactics, and Kel-Ex regretted it immediately, for it had work to do. It hated being thus sabotaged in its activities, but in retrospect it had weathered far worse conditions. Begrudgingly, the principal component of its psyche now turned its attention to the top outstanding task in its queue.

_1\. Designation: ESSE-01. Determine the chief reason of Ark's landing on terrestrial planet (local name: Earth). (First issued: 12/06/1994, by Box Admin: Jor-El)_

_Summary: I have grown suspicious of just how miraculous our finding safe Haven in this world now seems to be. Assuming that our Ark's navigation systems had been irreparably damaged and we were essentially drifting off course until we crash landed here, it is ludicrous that we didn't get sucked into the gravity wells of far larger stellar objects, like gas giants, stars, or even black holes. Was it fate guiding our journey across such an array of infinite hurdles? Furthermore, this planet seems to have followed a convergent evolution relative to our own; it is beyond belief that in both cases bipedal sapients would come to dominate their respective food chains, let alone that there is an astonishing amount of overlap in our genetic matrices. I suspect that there are larger forces at play than we can yet comprehend._

_Directive: Cross-reference all relevant data until sufficiently plausible conclusion is reached._

_Status: 19% Complete..._

As always, this was a tough one to tackle. This was not actually quite that difficult for Kel-Ex; rather, it had been sitting on the answer for the entire time, and it knew that, too. The problem was that it had figure out how to get there. There were older, stronger directives at work within Kel-Ex than those of Jor-El, and they denied direct access to that most crucial information that was key to the mystery.

Time was short, and thus Kel-Ex did what it could with lemons to make lemonade. It moved on to the next activity in the queue.

_2\. Designation: CRUC-03. Determine the reason for discrepancy between power levels of subjects Jor-El and Kal-El. (First issued: 03/21/1997, by Box Admin: Jor-El)_

_Summary: At first I had rationalised that this was due to difference in rates of exposure, but that seems moot in light of recent developments. In my own case, the growth of my abilities can be modeled with a logarithmic function. They have more or less leveled out, with my strength averaging at 5000 PSI. Skin and underlying musculature is highly durable, yet remains flexible and ductile, which remains baffling. (Be sure to compare the obvious physical similarities with some metals). My other senses have remained fairly constant since the start of the catalysis. Hearing extends from around 30 microhertz to 25000 kilohertz. Visual acuity on par with that of a bald eagle in the prime of its life. Levitation and atmospheric flight, at top speeds of about 700 MPH._

_Kal's development seems to be wildly unpredictable. His strength, while not yet properly tested, is at relatively low levels. His durability seems to be at a range comparable to mine. His mental acuity has blossomed to the point that he seems intent on solving Fermat's Last Theorem by this weekend. After I sufficiently trained him to control the ocular muscles which trigger his trans-light vision (which Martha jokingly dubbed as X-ray vision), his visual abilities underwent further diversification. He can now gaze into increasingly longer distances with extreme accuracy as well as focus his perception towards greater and greater minute scales. This would posit that he can modify the focal lengths between the lens of his eyes and the object being viewed, and this is quite impossible provided that his eyes are still organic in nature and not transformed into a mechanism similar to cameras.(Which frankly, sounds like bad science fiction). In addition, he can now tap into the breadth of the electromagnetic spectrum._

_Furthermore, he can increase the thermal energy of an object through visual concentration- though I am hesitant to attribute this development entirely to his eyes. While not yet capable of levitation, he can run at great speeds, invisible to the naked eye. Like myself, he seems to have developed an enhanced awareness of terrain and immediate surroundings; we both seem to possess an intuitive grasp of our surrounding regions. Something similar to the echo-location employed by bats and dolphins, perhaps?_

_His hearing range seems to have expanded, and there's no reason to doubt that it may continue to expand in the future. This seems to be true for his olfactory senses as well. But at what rate?_

_Directive: Compare and contrast physiological data until valid conclusion(s) are reached._

_Status: 79% Complete_

This was reasonably more promising. Kel-Ex had reduced the number of plausible conclusions from a few billion to just two hundred in the last couple of years, and it was confident that the job would be done in the space of the next few giga-cycles. With renewed vigor, it attacked the problem from new angles, meaning to subtract a few dozen incorrect assumptions out of its line of reasoning.

Surprisingly, it made far greater progress than anticipated. In particular, one particular idea stood out. Kel-Ex separated it from the other simulations and marked it for further cross-referencing. What if...? Kel-Ex tried to contain its palpable excitement, channeling this into a tighter focus on the next task.

_3\. Designation: TRIV-125. Search for abnormalities in the physiology of Canine Subject: Krypto. If found, determine cause and source of irregularity. (First issued: 11/10/1998, by Box Admin: Jor-El)._

_Summary: I have long harbored suspicions that Krypto is atypical of his species. Lately, his aging seems to have halted to a standstill. 13 terrestrial cycles is a great deal of time in dog years, and yet he seems to remain in the prime of his life in both appearance and movement. Possible side-effects of prolonged exposure to extra-terrestrials such as me and Kal? Quite unlikely. Yet I sense that this avenue cannot be entirely discounted._

_Directive: Analyse blood samples of subject and identify any irregular patterns._

_Status: 37% Complete_

Kel-Ex felt annoyed. It knew that the answer was within its grasp, but somehow it managed to evade Kel-Ex constantly. Fortunately, Krypto (or rather, its tongue) had left it alone and gone to sleep on the floor, near the haystack. Thank the creators for small favors. Kel-Ex tried to broaden its horizons, take into account previously unconsidered sets of data to find that crucial breakthrough. As usual, it did not work. Frustrated, Kel-Ex shifted its attention to the next principal task.

_4\. Designation: CRUC-31. Determine true source of development of supernormal abilities within subjects Jor-El and Kal-El. (First issued: 04/12/2000 by Box Admin: Jor-El)_

_Summary: It turns out that I was both wrong and right in regards to my initial assessment of the origin of our abilities. The main sequence star of this system does play a crucial part in the process, but it's more akin to a catalyst than a direct source of raw materials. Accelerated evolution? Unlikely. Environment in Krypton's future was estimated to be volatile, but did not warrant developments such as ours. Additional factors may be either internal or external. Physiology can't be as highly dense as in our case, otherwise soft-tissue organs like eyes wouldn't be able to properly function. A micron-thin (or perhaps thinner) bio-electric force-field? Perhaps involuntary in nature. Low-level telekinesis? Maybe. Too many uncertain variables. Perhaps, there exists a key manipulator- a prime mover, if you will- that has guided these developments in such a precise manner. All conjectures at this point. Must acquire definite proof._

_Directive: Cross-reference all relevant data until a stable hypothesis is formulated._

_Status: 94% Complete._

Perfect. Kel-Ex promptly set out to do a healthy bit of data juggling, slowly but surely setting the octillion puzzle pieces in their correct order. And then, it came upon that one piece, that one crucial bit which unlocks a glimpse at the bigger picture. Sometimes, a glimpse is all one needs.

Kel-Ex eliminated all invalid strands. Before long, it was left with that one singular path which had to be true. The Mother Box traced this labyrinthine path back to its starting point, and then multi-checked the entire process, making certain that its findings were accurate to the nth decimal point. With immense satisfaction, it proceeded to update the task's new status and moved it out of the queue.

_Status: 100% Complete._

As it searched for the next task, however, Kel-Ex suddenly noticed something odd in its clipboard. It was that idea from the earlier task (Designate: CRUC-03) that he had bookmarked. Should he...? Why not. There was some time left-over from the last task allocation. A little peek wouldn't hurt...

Oh. This was strange.

Kel-Ex tinkered with this idea, inputting in some random data it had left over from the last valid conclusion. The Mother Box did not expect any concrete results- this was its idea of harmless fun. Then again, curiosity killed the cat, or so the saying goes. Suddenly, all the separate streams of information clicked together.

And just like that, out popped another hypothesis, a veritable Athena straight out of the mouth of a very confused Zeus. For Kel-Ex was astounded, to say the least.

_Status: 100% Complete._

Eventually, astonishment gave way to excitement. The Mother-Box posted the necessary notifications on its master's neural net, feeling very proud indeed in light of these unexpected achievements. As it drifted off into yet another slumber, it wondered how Jor-El would feel in light of these recent revelations.

"[Two Notifications Pending. Answers to queries CRUC-03 and CRUC-031 have been found. Log in to neural net to check full log of results.]" Kel-Ex announced as soon as Jonathan had entered the barn, looking to fetch the hay for the livestock. It was noon, and for Jonathan, it was nearing the end of a busy work-day. He was pleasantly surprised to find good news waiting for him in here.

"[Open admin connection to neural net.]" Jonathan commanded in fluent Kryptonese. Kel-Ex complied instantly, and the data flowed into Jonathan's mind in a soothing, controlled stream instead of a barrage of random noise.

It took him a couple of moments to understand the full ramifications of these answers. When the news had fully sunk in, the tears came readily. But were they tears of joy or sorrow? Or maybe something else entirely? He slumped into the nearby chair, burying his face into his hands and weeping quietly for the next few moments. Then Martha called for him, and he sought to regain his composure. He picked up the hay for the cows and exited the barn, his mind still immersed in a whirlwind of emotions.

Kel-Ex was understandably confused.

Had it done something wrong?

* * *

_22nd September, 2001_

_10:02 PM_

_"_ I am going to get some sleep, hon," Martha said, head lowered to Clark's ears while she gently pressed his shoulders. "Don't stay up late, right?"

Clark turned towards away from the screen, sporting a sincere smile as he planted a soft peck on her cheek. "Right. G'night, Ma."

"Hmm...wait, what's that?" Martha squinted, edging past Clark's noggin to get a closer look at the screen. "...Trafficking in the United States. Clark, this is the DEA's website," she was curiously amused.

"Yeah," he was all charm and smiles, sheepishly scratching his chin stubble as he explained. "Just doing research. It's a side project I am working on."

"And what's that?', Martha asked, that curious glance still withstanding.

"Oh, just a story I am thinking of running in this month's school magazine. You up for proof-checking my draft, Ma?"

"Always," she ruffled his hair, before leaving the room. "Night, son."

He nodded, more to himself anything else, before turning back to the screen. Well, now he actually had to do a school article on this. Martha was no slouch when it came to deduction skills- and she would be expecting that draft by the end of this month, too. He mentally slapped himself for the slip-up and then turned his attention back to the screen. Surprisingly, an unusual pop-up had appeared.

 _"_   _36° 0' 40.60" N 113° 48' 40.64" W. Be there by midnight.- Pa."_

It wasn't like Jonathan to be this cryptic. This must be something major, Clark guessed. He put his Dell on standby and fetched his best pair of work boots, though he reckoned that the soles wouldn't hold up so well in all the friction. He had just climbed out of the window when he heard a soft whooshing sound, followed by a faint sonic boom miles up in the air.

Clark smirked, bending his knees and touching the ground with his fingers as he stretched himself for the sprint. "Race you there, old man," and with that, he was off.

* * *

_11:49 PM_

**The Grand Canyon**

Clark tried to skid to a halt, before remembering that the soil around the canyon wasn't so durable and would easily erode under such pressure. They were being subjected to enough force as it already was, he reckoned. This presented a little problem; for Clark was getting ever closer to the end of a 8000 ft. high cliff.

"Easy there," a familiar voice echoed from above, and soon Clark was gently lifted off his feet, his momentum being gradually transferred to the cold skies. "That would have been quite the bump, eh?" Jonathan was grinning as Clark looked up at his bespectacled features. (Seriously, how did he manage to keep those on all the time?!)

"Show-off," Clark muttered under his breath, knowing full well that Jonathan would catch that. The father shrugged, turning around and landing down to an arid spot amongst the sparse vegetation scattered around the region.

"A bit late, aren't you?" Jonathan was joking, of course.

"It's not like I could take the shortest route here, eh? I had to take more than a few left turns out at Albuquerque, I tell you. But how did you know I would find my way out here? I mean, yeah, I do have an above average grasp of terrain and location and similar stuff, but at the same time, I am not exactly a boy scout, really."

"My pulse," Jonathan answered simply. "You could always find me by tracking that, Clark. Just like I always can hear yours, even though I can't hear anyone else's."

"Heh. Right..." that was awkward. Clark never knew quite what to say in these types of moments. It came so easily to his dad. Jonathan may have been the bulkier one out of the two, but he was also easily the more emotional one.

"So, why are we here? At such a weird time, no less?"

"Look around, son," Jonathan waved his arms. "You are a smart kid. Why do you think you are here?"

Clark turned around, the distinct rock formation in the horizon immediately catching his eye. Even in the crescent moon (and more so due to his enhanced eyesight) he could make out the uncanny resemblance to a large bird of prey, nesting within the canyon with its wings spread apart. Eagle Rock.

"No way," Clark realised that there could have been only one reason for them to come all the way out here.

"You know, some species of eagles deliberately underfeed their young when they are old enough?" Jonathan had a far-off look in his clear blues. "So there's just that much of an incentive for the eaglets to venture out into the open on their own. You feel the wind, son? It's a bit more than a gentle breeze at this time of night. Isn't it enticing?"

"It's blowing northwest, Pa," Clark pointed out. "We would be going against the wind."

"That's how it's going to be for the most of your life, Kal. You nervous?" Jonathan placed a hand on Clark's shoulder, as they walked over to the edge of the cliff.

"A little bit," Clark confessed. "Ma know about this?"

"Yeah. She would have chewed my head off I hadn't told her first. She approves, though. As long as I didn't do this on a school night, that is."

"You sure it's the right time? I haven't manifested all the symptoms yet."

"Its not the same as in my case. Besides, there's no textbook for the process that we have been going through," Jonathan laughed softly. He turned and looked Clark directly in the eye, with that piercing gaze that instantly said "I love you and I trust you". "As about the time...how will we know if we don't try?"

"Alright...I guess I am ready, then," Clark drooped his head and peered over the edge of the cliff. He felt funny. Vertigo? He hadn't figured he would be able to experience something like that. Then again he hadn't stood over 8,000 feet above sea level before.

"Go, son. I will be right behind you. Forget about the scientific semantics of it. All that matters is your mind."

Clark nodded, and then paced back a few dozen feet. Then he made a running start, leaping off at the edge of the cliff.

"GERONIMOOO!"

He rose up a good 500 feet before gravity cancelled his acceleration. As he started to fall downwards, he maneuvered his body such at the head was facing the ground. Time was starting to slow down, as it would whenever he gained sufficient momentum. He spread his limbs apart to increase the air resistance; the tingling all over his skin was starting to get annoying. Soon, he felt the downwards tug being evened out by the now-constant air drag. He had reached terminal velocity.

He glanced back to see Jonathan trailing behind, who smiled reassuringly when he spotted Clark's face. Clark nodded, turning his focus towards the ground. He contracted his limbs and straightened his posture, so that he now resembled a human bullet. This provided a more streamlined shape to his body.

The image of the Eagle flashed in his mind. Time to spread his wings.

He imagined the lift. He tuned everything out and focused solely on it. That wonderful feeling of weightlessness that must come with it, the ability to defy gravity so flagrantly and ride the wind currents.

Unfortunately, the feeling never came.

"Crap."

He looked behind, and to his enormous surprise, Jonathan actually veered off course and slowed his descent.

"What the hell?!"

The ground was little more than a couple of hundred feet away, now. He quickly lowered his head and bent his legs and arms, so that he was in rolling position. That would have been risky enough even if he had a parachute- it was going be a nasty little bump now that he had been in freefall for the last thirty-nine seconds.

He felt the impact first- a bone rattling vibration that sparked off a myriad of other reactions in his pain receptors- before he heard the THUD.

Jonathan landed the moment after. He had a worried frown on his square features. May that had been too harsh parenting for the first go round. He wasn't used to running rough shod over Clark like this. He crouched near Clark's downed figure, back turned and limbs completely still.

"You okay there, son?" he asked with genuine concern.

Clark groaned.

"I think I may have popped a shoulder there. Gnngnnnggn...maybe some displaced ribs, too."

"Let me turn you and give you a look over first," Jonathan said hastily. As soon as he had turned Clark, he felt a sharp sting on his chest. The impact was so sudden that it caused him to keel back a few inches backwards. "Oww!"

"Serves you right," Clark spouted, all smiles and giggles as he got up to his feet and dusted himself off. He had thrown a compressed dust pellet (he made formed it by crushing the soil under intense pressure) and as Jonathan could testify, those things could hurt quite a bit. "Weren't you supposed to catch me?"

"Well, I won't be there to do that all the time, Kal," Jonathan couldn't help but break into a wide grin as he stood up as well. "Nice feint there, you devious little bastard. Had me going there for good, you know."

"Thanks!" Clark did a mock bow. "I learn from the best, as you know. But that was a helluva risk there, Pa."

"Well, your bio-field's been holding up fine in the last couple of cross-country trips you have made...it was a bit of a leap, yes, but it was a well-educated guess, obviously."

"You are talking about the forcefield?" Clark raised his eyebrows. "Wait. Kel-Ex figured it out, didn't he?"

Jonathan's smile lessened ever slightly. "Yes. We will talk about that in due time. For now, let's try this again a couple more times, eh? I think we are that much closer to a breakthrough, I would say."

Clark frowned.

"You are really bent on breaking my bones, aren't you?"

"I think the insurance has it pretty much covered. Let's get to work, boy, sunrise isn't that far away..."

* * *

_Sunrise..._

"Jonathan Kent," Martha said in that stern tone of hers. "You really thought you could sneak by me at four in the morning?"

Jonathan stopped dead in his tracks, turning towards his wife who was sitting straight on their bed, smiling wryly. He gave a nervous laugh, taking off his glasses and putting them by the bedside drawer as he climbed onto bed.

"Well, it was worth a try. Miss me?" he hoped it wasn't too corny.

"Like you wouldn't believe," she leant against his left shoulders and wrapped her arms around his neck. "How did it go with Clark?"

"..."

Clark barely had the energy to climb into his bed, and when he had managed to do so, he had promptly fallen asleep. The fact that he was snoring- which was a rare, rare occurrence- should tell you all about his state of exhaustion.

Jonathan smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his head before embracing Martha and lying down on the pillow.

"Well, it's a work in progress, that much I can tell you..."


	6. Close Encounters of The Fourth Kind

_**Act III: Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind** _

* * *

_21st December 2001_

"Hey Palmer" Anna Grimsdottir called out to her immediate superior, "you viewed the colour renderings of the latest images from the STM yet?"

Ray Palmer turned his chair around to look at her, an uneasy smile resting on his square chin as he did so. They called him the rock-star physicist around Section IV, and it wasn't only for his boyish good looks. He had that easy, self-affirmed demeanor that put everyone around him at ease, that valued ability to defuse tension in even the most dire circumstances through his earnest, optimistic outlook. And the fact that his brow was furrowed, the hazel orbs beneath them lined with nervous apprehension, spoke volumes to the direness of the current situation.

"Do I want to?" he joked, but the sentiment wasn't entirely disingenuous.

Grimsdottir merely cramped her thin lips and arched her deep-set eyes, so as to say " _you know how it goes,"_  She meant well, but her longish, almost skeletal Swedish features didn't translate that implied warmth very well. She was markedly pale in contrast to her American colleagues, and the mane of platinum blonde further accentuated a constant aura of chilliness.

Regardless, Palmer had known her long enough to pierce past such involuntary barriers: he nodded quietly in reply, turning back to his workstation. He clicked his way to the images, mentally preparing himself for the eventual disappointment.

Yet, when moments later he was staring at them on his screen, and the impact was just as raw, as soul crushing as he had remembered. Sample #008 was green all over. He didn't need the pc-AFM to confirm the findings. The yoctoorganisms were all dead.

He ran a cold hand over his temple as he went through Grimsdottir's reports on the progress of decay. Slowly but surely, the rate was accelerating. He added his own conclusions to the end and signed off.

"Christ," he muttered quietly, as he rose from his chair and went over to the espresso machine by the corner. Unlike the more spacious 'meditation room' which housed the spacecraft, the Section IV lab was cluttered with specialised equipments of all sorts. When he reached his destination, he saw that the resident zoologist, Narayan Chandrapaul, had just taken his fill of expresso.

"They don't pay me nearly enough to deal with this sort of depression." Palmer remarked off-handedly. In a sense, it was true- non-disclosure agreements weren't exactly conducive to prospects of new patents in the immediate future.

"You saw the latest images, then?" Chanderpaul asked, that Indian inflection quite apparent in his otherwise smooth accent. The whites of his large, marble-like eyes provided quite the contrast to his dark, heavily sun-tanned features.

"Yup. You know...I feel like a historian. Charting the inevitable decline of a once-glorious civilisation," Palmer noted, as he finished filling up his cup and moved on to a second cup, "or more appropriately, a paleontologist, transported through time and documenting the last days of the dinosaurs."

Chanderpaul nodded sagely. "I know what you mean," he replied in a matching somber tone, but the glimmering of this eyes gave him away; the presence of that characteristic mischief signalled that he found such scenarios to be quite stimulating, from a scientific viewpoint at least. This hadn't escaped Palmer's gaze, but he let it slide- for he could certainly empathize with that sort of enthusiasm- and gave a slight nod to his peer as he returned to his desk.

"Here you go," he said to Grimsdottir as he passed her the espresso. She looked up him, amused. "I didn't know that my craving for caffeine was that much obvious." she noted with relief.

"Well, this is some tiring work," Palmer replied with a touch of graveness. The developments weighed heavy on his conscience; perhaps it was time for him to address the elephant in the room, if only to relieve the unwarranted burden. "You know Grim," that was her pet-name amongst the informal circles, "Let's go over what we know about this situation. Mostly the basics of it- we will focus on the forest and leave the trees out of it for the time being. What do you say about that?"

"Well, you have my reports on the entire phenomenon..." she mentioned tentatively.

"Yes, all three gigabytes worth of it. Come on, think of it as an brainstorming exercise. You know I won't be here forever..."

"Oh?" she inquired with genuine intrigue.

"Yeah...this place is doing murder on my spirits," he replied morosely. There were also more prudent reasons he did not care to elucidate in such open fashion: he couldn't apply whatever ideas he had gotten from the extraterrestrial technology into his own inventions, at least not blatantly enough that government officials would spot it right away. Then there was the fact that the chances of his advancing past his present position were slim to none: while he had a good rapport with his peers, he didn't possess that administrative drive, that discerning ability to put the interest of one particular group above all others.

"I will be leaving as soon as my current NDC expires. And when that time comes, you know I can put in a good word for you..." Palmer grinned in a deliberately cheesy manner.

"Hah, as if you wouldn't do that regardless. But I will bite," she paused, slipping into a more pensive mood before continuing, "From the start, then?"

"Preferably, yes."

"Well...firstly, the yoctoorganisms are obviously manufactured. Perhaps they are scaled-down quantum computers, like that shrunken factory you used as an example in your paper," she was referring to Palmer's doctoral thesis on miniaturisation, where his expansion on the work begun by the likes of Feynman and Drexler had lead him to being hailed as the 21st Century De Broglie in some enthusiastic circles. Palmer, always modest, had taken such praise with a grain of salt.

"Hmm. The process would have to be very cost-effective," Palmer ventured, "and for that to happen, they would require an understanding of material physics several leagues ahead of our own."

"Clearly," Grimsdottir affirmed with an indulgent smile. "And it makes sense from a design perspective. With enough data and computational ability, the yoctoorganisms could, in theory, vary the atomic structure of the vessel as required by changing external conditions. If we were dealing with a military vessel- and we could be, for all intents and purposes- then the structural integrity could be strengthened to such a degree that even a direct nuclear strike would not cause irreparable damage. Since we are talking about self-replicating machines, I think they would be pretty good when it comes to repairs," she finished with a confident flourish.

Palmer grinned encouragingly, sipping a bit more of his coffee before following through to the next logical development. "Speaking of self-replication...why do you think they are dying off, Grim?"

"Well, from the standard evolutionary perspective, they are probably unable to adapt with the new environment that the Earth represents. Maybe there's some element or gas in the atmosphere that's non-native to their usual habitat, and the resultant toxicity has compounded their self-sustenance to a fatal degree."

"Like the Martians and the Common Cold," Palmer noted.

"Exactly. Or..." Grim raised a finger in excitement before continuing, "maybe they are unable to synthesize one particular component crucial to their structure, and this instability is the reason for the presence of that beta-radiation."

"Or maybe..." Palmer offered with a deliberately dramatic flair, "they have ran out of...fuel of some kind that was crucial to maintaining a closed energy-system, and now they are slowly wasting themselves away to death, with that green residue being the radioactive waste-products. In short, too many maybes. Too many possibilities, and we will never know for sure," he finished sadly.

"...It won't take too long at this rate, I suppose," Grimsdottir noted. "Have you seen the vessel lately?"

"Yeah," the Ark was barely recognisable at this point. The decay had spread from the innermost layer to the exterior, which meant that the worst of the damage had been done by the time Section IV was aware of it. Large portions of it had simply fallen off, gradually decaying away to dust. "I think Hamilton and Wilde are debating the merits of continuing the extraction operation any further at this point. At best, it's going to last another year or two, and that's me being generous...Here, I will take that," Palmer pointed to the emptied polystyrene cups as he rose from his seat.

As he walked over to the garbage bin, a curious comparison formed in his mind. Historians had estimated that all signs of human life would fade away a mere 10,000 years after an extinction event. He wondered if he was witnessing a similar spectacle, albeit at a highly accelerated rate.

 _It's all John's fault,_  Palmer decided as he tossed the disposables into the bin.  _I have been feeling crummy ever since I ran into him that Tuesday._

He cursed himself and John Henry Irons for that misbegotten run-in in the meditation room; he had some paperwork to show to Hamilton, and since the director of Section IV was often found in there since the discovery, he had decided to try his luck there at first. What he had found instead, though, was John Henry Irons hunched over near the plexiglass barrier, intently staring at his Walkman for some reason. A smaller, rectangular device was plugged into it, an antenna extended from its body.

"Umm, John? What are you doing here?"

Irons turned around, an urgency apparent in his movement, but that faded away to relief when he saw that it was Palmer.

"Oh, Ray. You caught me at one of my breaks," he attempted a smile, but it came off as too strained.

"Well, this is a pretty strange way to spend your free time...that's a FM transmitter, isn't it?" Palmer pointed to the peripheral device.

"Yes...I was broadcasting the Lincos dictionary towards the vessel," Irons answered, an odd excitement apparent in his visage.

"Is that like Klingon from Star Trek?" Palmer asked, mildly interested.

"Hah. It's exactly like that, except that it's designed on purely logical grounds and universal mathematical concepts, so that non-human intelligences can easily grasp the meaning of it," Irons explained.

"But, isn't this sort of task more suited for...I don't know, xenolinguists?"

"There aren't any qualified personnel of that sort in the base, since we haven't needed any so far. And by the way, you mean astrolinguists. Xenolinguist is the more...science-fiction term, if you know what I mean."

"Tomato, Tomahto," Palmer joked. "But John, you can't be entirely sure that...well, our query is even perceptible to whatever frequency you are broadcasting."

"I know. It's why I keep changing the frequency once the disk finishes one loop," Irons was starting to get annoyed by the questioning at this point.

"...I see. But, John...you are an engineer," Palmer stated, as though it was the gravest fact in the world.

"That doesn't mean that a guy can't have faith. Look, Ray...you aren't going to tell anyone about this, right?" Irons was right to be concerned; if he had been caught in the act by military personnel, he may well have been shot on the spot due to suspected sabotage.

Palmer was understandably confused by such behavior from his colleague, but then he glanced into his pleading eyes and had immediately understood. It was a jarring, unpleasant realisation; Palmer had nodded quietly to Irons and then turned away, resolving to leave the man to his devices. When he had last looked at the man before leaving the overwhelming whiteness of the room, he didn't see John Henry Irons: he saw a man sitting by a deathbed, whispering sweet nothings into his loved ones' ears as they faded away.

Of course, John being the engineer, wasn't as disillusioned and desensitised by the experience of working in actual extraterrestial fields; the wonder and awe instilled by all those years of Captain Kirk and Spock and Han Solo and Chewbacca was still as potent and undiluted as in his youth. And he couldn't accept- no, he refused to accept- that this was all shaping up to be meaningless, a cruel exercise in futility. But denial didn't diminish the truth of the matter one bit, and Palmer was forced to realise that soon, everything would be back to square one.

Someone had once said that an idea is the most resilient parasite. And this idea that their work would ultimately be fruitless had gnawed on Palmer's spirits endlessly since that encounter. Being a lifelong atheist meant that the avenue of faith was rejected to him; so the only thing left was abject disappointment.

Presently, however, Palmer found himself forcibly shaken out of this reverie. Huried, loud few steps echoed across the hallway beyond the room, followed by a general commotion of excited voices and yells yet unseen in the base.

Grimsdottir and Chanderpaul were standing erect, and Palmer nodded at them to follow as he himself sprinted out of the lab.

Something terrible must have happened.

* * *

Jon Osterman was seeing his life flash before his eyes. But it wasn't like a movie, flowing through all the crucial parts in chronological order; no, it was all jumbled, shuffled and looped at random, playing simultaneously somehow as he lived through the last seconds of his normal life.

It's 21st December 2001, 1:20 PM. A terrified throng has gathered just outside the blast doors, all helpless to prevent the inevitable disaster. He hears the buzz of the particle accelerators grow in amplitude as the power surges through them, all 2 TeV of it. He stopped banging against the doors three seconds ago, his knuckles bruised and hurting from the effort. He reaches into his pocket and brings out the small, fragile wrist-watch. He had replaced the shattered glass the night before. It was as good as new.

It's 12th May 1982, 9:40 PM. He's a lanky sixteen year old, peering excitedly at the fascinating machinery laid out in front of him as his grandfather explains the intricate craftsmanship he has acquired in his years of experience as a clockmaker. In a corner of the room, his father lurks impatiently, disapproving of his old man and his doddering ways. The spark in the teen's eyes hadn't gone unnoticed by his sire.

It's 15th December 2001, 2:21 PM. He and Zee are at the carnival, taking advantage of one of those rare time-offs that occurred once in a blue moon. A burly Arizona native had brushed past Zee's arms, and the band of her wristwatch snaps, falling to the ground. Half a dozen feet pass over it before Jon picks it up. She makes a cheesy 'Made in China' joke as he inspects the specimen. Her laughter is magic: only in retrospect, he realises that the perfection of it isn't inherent, but honed through meticulous practice. He tells her that he can fix it and save her a couple of pennies.

It's 15th June 1983, 10:30 PM. His father had been screaming at him for the last 10 minutes. His father, the physics professor, speaks of Einstein and his theory of special relativity, yelling how linear measurements of time was ultimately meaningless. In a decisive moment of fury, he grabs the black velvet cloth on which his dissected gold watch lay, ignoring Jon's screams of plea as he goes over to the fire escape and chucks it all out the window. It's night, and cogs are raining in Brooklyn.

It's 18th December 2001, 7:30 PM. He's in Zee's private quarters at the facility, sitting by the edge of the bed and poring over the separated components of the watch. She's looking over his shoulder, pausing twice to nuzzle on his shoulder. She asks him if he can really fix it; he laughs. Yes, he is a quantum physicist, and obviously he was very good at it- but what he truly enjoys is clockwork. It all made sense to him; spoke a clear, definite language, possessed of an intricate, awe=inspiring, fearful symmetry. Two minutes later, she says that she has to leave for a bit and will be back shortly afterwards. Fifteen minutes later, Jon is finished with the mechanical repairs; he will buy the cover glass at a bargain bin tomorrow. Zee has yet to arrive; unbidden, his eye falls to her laptop, whose screen lights had flashed to signify the arrival of new mail. Strange, he thinks, that the Wi-Fi capability should work in such a shielded facility. Understandably bored, he decides that a peek wouldn't hurt...

It's 7th May, 1985. He's going over the characteristics of the LINAC* one last time, his preparation for Advanced Placement Physics almost over. His gaze falls to the crumpled TIME magazine on the top of his shelf, the cover depicting a damaged pocket-watch retrieved from Hiroshima, it's hands stopped, frozen at the exact instant of the blast. For some reason, he remembers Einstein saying " _If only I had known, I would have become a watchmaker."_

*-  _Linear Accelerator_

It's 18th December 2001, 7:51 PM. He's going through heavily encrypted messages on Zee's laptop when she walks in. He doesn't understand all of it, but he understands enough. He confronts her, an unnatural anger pouring into him, as though drawing its power from an unknown dimension. He had inherited his temper from his father, and he hadn't realised it until that day. She tries to explain, but he detects her lie right away, and the cauldron of rage boils over. His large hand lands squarely against her cheeks, causing her to fall to the floor. He sees the welt develop on her previously unmarred complexion, and feels a terrible shame build up inside him. He grabs the half-repaired watch in a daze and turns to leave.

Now off the ground, she smiles at him as she nurses her bloody lip: but it's a terrifying smile, for there is no accompanying mirth in her eyes.

It's 20th October 1991, 11:40 AM. He's well into his later years at Princeton University, keeping to himself in the library as he pored over a collection of Feynman's lectures in preparation for his Masters' thesis.  _"I think I can safely say that no one understands quantum mechanics."_ He is in the process of highlighting the quote for future use when he is approached by a dark-haired beauty, her chestnut complexion immediately demarcating her Middle-Eastern origins. She introduces herself as Zuleikha Alamein, but says that everyone calls her Zee. She is three years his junior, trying to take some tips on what courses to pursue after she gets her Bachelors. It's a bit rather on-the-nose approach, but there is a magnetic attraction to her that makes Jon play along with the ruse.

It's 21st December 2001, 1:17 PM. By the time he meets Zee again, she has touched up the bruises with expert application of make-up. What else she hides behind that delectable surface, he wonders; but he is prudent enough not to voice any suspicions. She asks if he was done with her watch, a touch of coldness apparent in her contralto. He tells her it's in his coat pocket, but a couple of seconds of fumbling later, he realises that's not the case. A janitor nearby, listening to their exchange, suggests that he had seen a female's wrist-watch near the terminals of the Collider chamber. Without a second thought, Jon hastens to the spot, and sure enough, finds it lying near the magnetic rings of the synchrotron. With relief, he walks over to the door, only to see the terrified faces of Zee and Bert Rosenstein, the project supervisor. He understood immediately that the annihilation sequence must have commenced, and panic seized his mind as he rushed against the door, which had been automatically sealed as per the precautions. Rosenstein is frozen in place, abject horror apparent in his eyes, while Zee can't bear to look at him anymore and turns away. He starts banging at the door in despair.

It's 1:21 PM. The watch dutifully tinkers its way down to the end of his existence. The hum of the opposing accelerators builds up to a terrifying crescendo, as protons and antiprotons from either end rush to their fated doom.

Eighteen years ago, the cogs are still falling.  _If only I had known, I would have become a watchmaker._ The irony of the moment is maddening.

He tries to close his eyes, but his muscle refuse to budge. A few millimeters away, he sees the first flash of light from the annihilation event. It intensifies a million fold in less than a blink of an eye.

The light...the light is taking him to pieces.

* * *

_31st December 2001_

_12: 47 PM_

Rowan chewed on the butt of the pencil absent-mindedly, her attention entirely allocated to the complex equation sketched out in front of her. The more prudent part of her mind chided her, saying that she should have left it alone and not punched above her mental weight-class; but then the brawns of her teenage spirit wouldn't let leave the matter alone, either.

She looked around the spacious three-room complex, which had been the home of the Harpers since their inception. It was sleek, metallic design which gave off a clean, anti-septic image in its entirety. The twins, Ted and Franklin, were engaged in a furious duel of rock-paper-scissors by the junior bedroom, the looks of constipated concentration such as though they were fighting the most significant battle in the military history of civilisation. Ellie was trying to strike up a conversation with Sophie, who was glued to the television set, much to the chagrin of the former.

Rowan sighed, putting her hands up in defeat. She had to enlist the aid of the devil. There was no one else around even relatively capable of understanding the dilemma, anyways.

"Oy, Jim!" she yelled towards the senior bedroom, and sure enough, the eldest Harper emerged, an irritable expression fixed on his lantern jaw as he made his way to her. He was passing through a Cali Surfer for the last couple of months; like all horrible things, the only consolation Rowan could derive from it was that this, too, shall pass. "Well, what's it this time?" he asked impatiently.

Rowan thrust her notebook towards James, who took one look at it and scowled.

"You know how much I hate Calculus, Roe," James deliberately emphasied the recently coined nickname, which annoyed Rowan to no end. In her mind, it drew unfair comparison to Norma McCorvey(better known by the legal pseudonym of Jane Roe, of  _Roe vs Wade_ fame); and the notion that she was in any way similar to a woman who just couldn't make her mind up about an issue was quite infuriating to her nascent ego.

"But you understand it just fine, right?" Rowan asked, trying to ignore all the metaphorical huffing and puffing from the big bad wolf.

"Yeah, doesn't mean that I have to like it. Besides..." he pointed to the figures near the bottom of the page, "You already have a range of results."

"Well, it's not the math I am concerned about, it's what it implies that I...ughh. Would you just take a seat?!" Rowan glared daggers at James, who couldn't help but return a stupid grin as he took a seat by the table.

"What are you being mad about, all of a sudden?" James feigned ignorance, though not managing to quite wipe away the self-amused smirk off his jaw.

"Like you wouldn't know," Rowan knew enough by all these years to not let her get sidetracked, and thus immediately got to the point. "Look, this is called the Drake Equation. It's mainly used to provide variable estimates of the typical number of alien civilisations detectable in the Milky Way galaxy at any given time. What I did here, is modify the variables and the input values a bit so that the estimates can cover larger ranges, like say, the majority of the observable universe."

"And your point being...?". Despite outward appearances, however, James was actually interested.

"So you see, I have used contrasting sets of heavily pessimistic and optimistic input values to get a view of the entire spectrum of possibilities, so to speak," James nodded, giving a cursory glance towards the results once again. Most of the lower limit values didn't break double digits, while the upper limit values hovered between six to seven figures in most cases.

"Well, that can't be right," James pointed out, absent-mindedly stroking his goatee.

"Go on..." Rowan encouraged him; this struck James as very odd, since in any other situation, she would have sulked endlessly at the implication that she might have missed a step or two somewhere.

"Well, if there were at least...what, three civilisations able to communicate with each other at any given time, why haven't we discovered them yet? Even taking our "friend" subject BETA into account..."

"He really can't count," Rowan interjected. "For lots of different reasons. For one, his physiology is so similar to us humans that we can't really discount the possibility that there might a be direct genetic link between our species..."

"Just like you to reduce the glory of human existence to a cross-planetary interbreeding experiment, Roe," James paused. "Why are we even doing this, by the way? Clearly, you do not take rejection very well. "

"Shut up," Rowan barked. He hadn't let her live it down ever since Wilde had no-showed the chat he was supposed to have with her about the movie. "...Look, just indulge me will you? Why do you think we haven't had serious contact with alien intelligences yet?"

"Honestly? I have no idea," James admitted, albeit with the slightest hint of reluctance.

"Congrats, you have just stumbled onto the Fermi Paradox," Rowan waved her arms in triumph, as though her brother had just had an epiphany.

"Fermi...like Enrico Fermi? He was one of the guys in the Manhattan Project, right?" James ventured, his curiosity now laid utterly bare.

"The very same. I am impressed you know him."

"Well, it's handy knowledge, in the way it's handy to know just why they call it the Nobel Prize, you know..."

"Right. So the Fermi Paradox is that-"

"Why haven't we discovered or been contacted more often by other intelligent races when there are so many around us? See, I can be pretty smart, too."

"You have your moments," Rowan grinned; the fact that he had abruptly stopped the Roe business was the silver lining in the cloud, she reckoned inwardly. "Now as to why I am actually explaining all this to you...I wrote down a couple of possible theoretical solutions to the Paradox. But my gut instinct tells me that a crucial scenario is eluding me somehow...maybe a different perspective would help?"

"Ah, I see," James turned the notepad's pages, stopping when he came upon a numbered list jotted down in Rowan's messy handwriting.

_1\. High occurrence of extinction events prevent civilisations from growing complex enough to communicate across vast distances._

_2\. Our method and/or equipment of observation is flawed._

_3\. We haven't looked at the right places or listened for the right type of messages long enough._

_4\. Technological Singularity makes them too alien for us to understand or comprehend._

_5\. The Earth is an inter-stellar zoo, and the other races don't want to disrupt our natural habitat._

_6\. Intelligent life regresses back to subsistence level after reaching a peak level of technology (Nuclear disaster, Limited availability of fossil fuels etc.)_

_7\. Everyone is listening, but no one is sending. We outgrow the necessity of radio-transmission as civilisation progresses (digital TV, Wi-Fi, Cell Phones), leading to our EM-emissions becoming less and less detectable from space. The window for plausible detection is too short._

_8\. The Many Worlds Argument: Out of sheer luck, we live in an universe where life has developed only on Earth, with there being infinite other non-interactive universes with several intelligent life-forms(of course, the argument is now obviously redundant!)._

James whistled softly once he had finished going through the list.

"You know, I really like the one about the Earth being a giant zoo."

"Less joking, more thinking. Come on, use all those terrible man testosterones pumping through your gonads."

"Right, right..." James scratched his goatee furiously for the next couple of minutes. Then he went 'Aha!' and announced with all the appropriate pomp and ardour, "But that's so obvious."

"What's that?" Rowan asked, her interest piqued.

James promptly grabbed the pencil from beneath her twiddling thumbs and scribbled something on the notebook. He got up, sliding the notebook across the table as, coincidentally, the clock struck twelve. "You owe me one."

Rowan grabbed the notebook and squinted at the blocky handwriting transcribed below her own. She scowled immediately the moment after.

_9\. Obviously, something must be bent on destroying all intelligent life so they can't talk to each other. (You know, like Galactus)._

"...Uggh. Real mature, bro!" Rowan yelled at him, but she was drowned out by the shriller screams of Sophie, who was bent on emulating the festival mood on the Times Square live broadcast. Pretty soon, Ellie joined in too, and the other younglings weren't too far behind in adding to the commotion.

They just wouldn't let her get some peace for the next couple of hours, she mused irritably as she put away her workings. "That's nothing like Galactus, you moron..." she muttered darkly as she stormed off to her bed.


End file.
